


Pardon Me, But Your Knives Are in My Hat

by Malvapulce



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Drama & Romance, Humor, Insults, M/M, Slice of Life, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-21 10:00:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malvapulce/pseuds/Malvapulce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fran notices a difference in his tutor’s behaviour, Bel is just confused, and Mammon discovers a way to cash in on her colleagues' plight. Just a simple story of how the Varia’s dysfunctional couple came to be. B26, slice-of-life and M/M. Originally posted on FFnet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic originally in Finnish and after my friend (cheers, Emmi!) told me I should translate it to get more readers - since I don’t know any Finnish KHR fans and there are no sites to publish it - I decided to give it a try. It’s my first time translating a story, so I’m very grateful to Emmi for urging and encouraging me with my sometimes very frustrating job. Many thanks for my beta Cheshire XIII for checking the English version. I originally posted this on FFnet and after creating an account on Ao3 I decided to publish it here, too. (While musing whether my next fic will be of Free! or Shingeki no Kyojin. Or both.)
> 
> The title of the fic is borrowed from an old Roman Polanski movie called The Fearless Vampire Killers or Pardon Me, But Your Teeth Are in My Neck. The titles of actual chapters are direct quotes from movies and TV shows. Because I'm just silly in that way. I will give a list of their origin in the end of the fic.
> 
> Katekyo Hitman Reborn and its characters belong to Amano Akira. I achieve no financial gain with this, only a frustratingly persistent tenosynovitis.
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated.

**Prologue I**

 

“Yeah, our corpses died pretty gory deaths. I put a lot of effort into yours. All kinds of stuff hanging out every which way. Pretty tragic sight. I even factored in your fighting style in deciding what to make it look like. It’s perfect.”

Belphegor stares at the emotionless face beneath the massive frog hat. The green pieces of glass reflect his own expression, as the monotonous voice portrays the horrors the young illusionist planned in order to increase the credibility of his charade. Blood was all over the place. Their bodies were torn so thoroughly inside out the imagination of a splatter movie director is forced to settle for a second place. Fran could even make Bel’s eyes pop out of his skull. 

Their opponents bought it. The illusion saved them, Bel has to admit. But they got lucky that Rasiel didn’t stay behind to check the bodies. Fran has never seen Bel’s eyes, so the boy probably has gone somewhat wrong in their design.

Bel is furious and at the same time extremely attracted.

God damn, that brat has a twisted sense of humour!

 

*** * ***

 

There is a new experiment going on in the Varia. 

They try recruiting a new chef; a female one, Signora Mancini. Thus far they haven’t had an actual chef but Lussuria or some of the grunts have taken care of the alimentation. However, Lussuria is now beginning to get too busy elsewhere and the grunts’ cooking abilities fail to keep Xanxus satisfied. Signora Mancini is supposed to be a virtuoso when it comes to the culinary art.

“It’s about time we got a woman in the house,” Levi reckons. Signora Mancini is in her fifties but the age hasn’t stopped the Thunder Guardian from conceiving questionable ideas before. Squalo ponders if he should give Levi ‘the talk’ before the guy’s slow line of thought combined with clumsy pick-up lines drives their new chef through the front door. He hasn’t got time to say anything though because…

“A woman?” Bel blurts. ”But we’ve got Fran?”

Squalo and Levi share a rare exchange of glances. Are you going to say it or am I?

Levi sacrifices himself. “Erm, Bel, Fran is a guy.”

The prince’s jaw drops.

“Fran is a _guy_?”

Squalo sighs. For a person whose IQ verges on 160, Bel can sometimes be incredibly stupid.

Or the prince is just messing with them. He has a tendency to do that, too. The surprise just seems quite genuine. You don’t have to see behind the troll wig to notice that the blond is completely stunned. And lately he’s been behaving oddly as well; sometimes absent-minded, sometimes hyperactive. He’s been throwing questionable ideas, _forgetting_ stuff. Squalo makes a note to himself to consult Dr. Shamal. After all, Bel is a walking time bomb; too smart for his own good. Too smart people easily snap. Perhaps in the age of twenty-six, the sand in Bel’s hourglass has finally run out.

“Why in the world have you gotten it into your head that Fran is a girl?” Levi asks. Squalo is pretty sure he can live without the answer.

“Well, the brat does look like…” Bel mutters.

True, Fran is scrawny – someone might even say delicate – and maybe a tad androgynous, but not for one second has Squalo imagined Varia’s youngest recruit to be a female. Fran even sounds like a boy. Maybe it’s too far-fetched to talk about a voice break, but Fran definitely has a deeper voice than women.

“Fran looks like a skinny boy,” he states as a fact.

“But Fran can be a girl’s name, too.”

“Bel is a girl’s name.”

“But it’s not my full name.”

“Fran’s full name might not be Fran but for example François,” Levi offers.

“Hmh, maybe.”

“Or it might not even be his real name. His background is hidden, you know.”

“True as well. Wow, Levi, you’re on fire today!”

Squalo fails to understand why they still continue this nonsense. _Why is Bel so astounded?_

“Voiii! How is it possible for you to mistake Fran for a girl? You goddamn troll, cut your hair so you might actually see the people around you!”

“Shishi, you are the one to talk.”

“My hair doesn’t impair my vision so that I’d confuse my colleagues’ sex!” Squalo answers nobly. “Not to mention that it’d stick out in every imaginable direction like an unruly pot plant, like someone else’s. Previously, your hair actually had some sort of discipline. Now you just look like fucking Dino Cavallone!”

A complete ten-finger-selection of knives materialises in Bel’s hands.

“Boss!” Levi shouts in alarm. ”Bel’s going to use knives in a public place!”

Squalo groans. “Jesus Christ, keep your mouth shut!”

Levi’s tattling makes the prince restore the shining blades inside his clothes and a bigger conflict is avoided. Fortunately Xanxus hasn’t heard or if he has, he doesn’t seem to care.

Bel straightens his tiara and rolls his slim shoulders back. “There’s nothing wrong with my vision. The brat just looks like a fucking chick.”

“He’s a he. If you are in need of some proof, you should go and yank the bathroom door open while he’s in it. Shouldn’t be a challenge for you,” Squalo snarls.

The grin is making itself known on the prince’s face again. “Ushishi, maybe I’ll do just that.”

Urgh, Squalo didn’t need to know that, although he’s secretly content that Bel seems once again to be like himself.

“Right. Well, as I was saying, it’s about time…” Levi is about to repeat his original notice when he gets interrupted again.

“What about Mammon?” Bel points out.

“Mammon is–!” Levi starts and immediately snaps his mouth shut. He looks again at Squalo. Seriously, one doesn’t often get to see this kind of thought exchange in the Varia.

“Mammon is…” Squalo attempts. He has always referred to the Varia’s own Arcobaleno with the masculine pronoun (he’s also referred Fran with it which concludes that Bel doesn’t listen to his superiors) but when he really starts to think about it, he’s not completely sure anymore. He remembers the other members to have spoken of Mammon as a he, too. Or have they? Didn’t Lussuria once blabber about some ‘girl’s night out’ which – besides himself – only the hooded illusionist was invited to?

“Fuck it, I don’t know!” he scowls. “Mammon doesn’t count.”

Bel is seemingly enjoying his colleagues’ confusion. “Lussuria then?”

“Oh, alright,” Levi gives up. “I’ll rephrase: It’s about time we get a woman you can actually identify as female.”

The conversation dries up, and Levi decides to never open his mouth about things he’s not one hundred percent certain of. Unfortunately for others, he remembers his decision all the way until the evening of the very same day.


	2. Act I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While not stated directly, I think it's pretty official amongst the fandom that Fran is originally from France. That’s why in this story he addresses Bel with a French title tuteur (meaning, yeah, tutor). I know a lot of fic authors use Bel-senpai and while I find that okay, I began to ask myself why would a person who lives in Italy, and speaks French as his mother tongue, use a Japanese honorific? I'm aware that senpai and tuteur don't exactly mean the same thing but that was the best term I could come up with.
> 
> I'd also like to point out that any opinions stated in this fic do not mirror those of the author. E.g. if in this chapter Fran finds Paulo Coelho boring, it doesn't mean the author thinks alike or intends to insult anyone's tastes. Mmkay? :)

**Act I – Hello, is this the creepy residence?**

 

After Tsunayoshi Sawada defeated Byakuran, the mafia world settled down to a tranquil everyday life. The Vongola brats returned to the past, and got replaced with their ten-year-older versions. The Varia travelled back to Italy to wait for their next big assignment, which doesn’t seem to be appearing anytime soon. The boss has retreated to his room and comes out only to eat or assault his second-in-command with glasses, empty bottles or any object available at hand. When the boss is away, the other Varia can take a deep breath. Unfortunately Commander Squalo can be an absolute pain in the ass outside work assignments, too. The encounter with Zakuro has sent the Sword Emperor on sick leave, but that doesn’t stop him from roaring on the headquarters’ stony hallways at seven in the morning, so one wouldn’t believe that slavery was abolished.

Fran doesn’t really mind the long-haired commander’s rampaging. In this madhouse some people call the Elite Independent Assassination Squad Squalo is the only person that has his feet at least partially attached to the ground. He’s the only person to have stopped tuteur Bel from riddling the air out of Fran.

Fran notices the change in his tutor’s behaviour approximately a week or two after the Byakuran conflict. Actually, one night while taking a shower, he realises he has received less physical blows lately; his skin has been spared of new cuts. If a knife emerges, it hits accurately his ridiculous headgear, so high it doesn’t even brush his hair. Instead of playing darts, the fake prince has taken a habit of insulting him. Sometimes the prince seems to be provoking him, trying to force him to express some form of feelings.

That is completely unnatural, of course. It’s not that tuteur Bel doesn’t love getting on his colleagues’ nerves – the long-haired commander doesn’t call him a troll for nothing – but Fran is under the impression that the blond despises him more than the mornings when the said commander comes to kick the prince out of his bed. Mammon, the original illusionist of the Varia, is probably the only creature in the world who can claim to be in close terms with the psychopathic prince. Fran is merely a replacement for Mammon, and watching Fran makes tuteur Bel see his loss.

But, Mammon has returned to the Varia. There are now two illusionists in the assassin squad. In principle, Fran could take his leave but his Master has his hands full with this dumb chick he acquainted with, somewhere along the way between the Vendicare Prison and the war with that crazy marshmallow stuffer (it’s really a long story). There are times when Fran feels like some sort of booby prize bandied about between the possible receivers. A hazardous waste whose final storing place is negotiated. He tells Commander Squalo in a roundabout way, hints that he could go and visit his grandma. But he is told that a vacation is totally out of the question. The Varia has two illusionists, but Mammon’s interests remain yet to be seen and Squalo anticipates the Arcobaleno conflict is only just beginning. Besides, the training of the younger illusionist is still incomplete. So Fran stays.

Undeniably, tuteur Bel has been in a better mood since his precious Arcobaleno returned. The kind of relationship those two share is something Fran doesn’t even want to imagine. He’s just happy Bel has other things to occupy his time rather than torturing his subordinate. 

That’s why he’s so surprised when the mischief doesn’t end. It just transforms.

Maybe his tuteur has noticed that Fran doesn’t react to the pain in a desirable way and has therefore harnessed verbal arms. Pity though, that in a verbal combat nobody outsmarts Fran, not even the Varia’s official Einstein.

Fran decides to take the new way of pestering as a challenge.

 

*** * ***

 

There’s a new chef in the Varia household. Fran hasn’t seen Signora Mancini yet but has heard of her cooking abilities. Tonight the Varia are celebrating for the reason the boss no longer gets the excuse to start a rampage over an unsatisfied meal. And if the dinner doesn’t meet the standards, Signora Mancini will be tossed out so promptly the neighbours think they’re witnessing a shooting star.

Fran is not particularly looking forward to the dinner. He has to drag himself to the dining hall mainly because it’s a custom. Like the other members of the Varia, he is from a culture in which dining together is a norm, but now he’d be more than ready to give up the tradition. If he could, he would take his meal and retreat to his own room to enjoy it. A shared dinner is a perfect opportunity for bullying and abusing each other, as well as a common function. On rare occasions, work-related topics are discussed over but usually participants just concentrate on annoying the hell out of each other. Such a different practise than at Master Mukuro’s place, where silence was greatly cherished. In the Varia headquarters such thing as a quiet day doesn’t exist.

Around seven thirty Fran places the book he’s been reading, the Alchemist by Paulo Coelho ( _incredible waste of time, why did he ever grab that accursed book in the first place?_ ) on the nightstand and crawls up from the bed where he has been lying the entire calm afternoon. Calm meaning ‘includes only a little action in which Fran’s input is required’. The long-haired commander’s hollering has been heard throughout the day in various directions of the mansion, but the only colleague Fran has seen today is Lussuria, who happened to land at the breakfast table at the same time with him.

The room is almost dark after the sunset. Fran straightens his clothes and walks to the bathroom. If he is thankful for something in this mental asylum, it would be the private sanitary quarters, as each head member of the Varia possesses their own bathroom. The nights of November are starting to get chilly and the old mansion’s bathroom is freezing as the heating doesn’t reaching its tiles. Fran has approximately two minutes before the long-haired commander launches his vocal cords. He lifts the lid of the toilet and finally relieves the pressure building up in his bladder. Truth to be told, he’s had the urge to go for the last hour and a half, but he just couldn’t get himself to leave his comfortable bed. 

Because it’s his private bathroom, Fran doesn’t lock the door, assuming nobody will enter his room without knocking at least once. He expects to hear it if the door opens. What he doesn’t expect to hear is his tutor’s trademarked giggle behind his back when he’s standing in front of the toilet holding his dick.

“Shishishi, where is the little froggy’s hat? You should be wearing it at all times.”

Fran’s heart bolts from the mere surprise but he manages to hide it from his tutor. His bladder halts its emptying, a primitive reaction to his alarm. He turns to peek over his shoulder, seeing the blond man standing at the bathroom door. Bel is leaning on the door frame, arms crossed over the black and red striped shirt, head slightly tilted, and the corners of his mouth stretched in a wide grin.

“I wasn’t expecting you to attack my private bathroom while I’m doing my business, Tuteur Bel. If watching my bodily functions doesn’t serve some higher purpose on the fake prince’s daily schedule, I kindly ask you to leave.”

Bel hauls himself off the frame, returns his weight on his both legs with the tilt of the head deepening. “Hmm, Commander Squalo was right.”

“About what?” Fran asks, not sure if he really wants to know.

“Commander told me to yank the bathroom door open when you’re in,” Bel says, ignoring the question.

_What the hell?_

Fran realises he’s unable to continue his business as long as the nutcase tutor is ogling him. He’s known from the very beginning Bel is not the sanest person around but he’s been under the impression that it's Levi who possesses the exclusivity on the art of voyeurism – and thought to be safe from it since Levi is only interested in women.

“Anyway, the dinner is set. You should come before the Commander rips his hair off,” the fake prince notes and turns around. “And don’t forget your hat, frog.” The door shuts behind him. Fran is left to stand stupefied before the toilet and this time he knows his face is showing his astonishment. His need is long gone, withdrawn back inside the system. He’s got a feeling he won’t be able to pee anymore tonight so he buttons up his pants, flushes, and washes his hands. The enormous frog-shaped hat is waiting in the arm chair. He places it on his head before leaving the room.

On the menu there’s Florentine steak, grilled asparagus and artichokes. The meat is perfectly cooked which means it has practically just glanced at the pan. Onto the surface is branded a criss-cross markings, and blood oozes out immediately after cutting. Fran doesn’t particularly care for raw meat. In fact, he doesn’t care for any kind of meat. If he had a choice, he’d eat only vegetables, chicken, seafood, and sweets, but that kind of diet is out of the question in a household where the superior consumes more meat in a month than an average family in a year. 

Fran eats the artichokes and asparagus and swallows couple of pieces of steak by sheer willpower. It doesn’t taste bad, it’s just the thought of undercooked meat that bothers him. Other members of the Varia seem to be enjoying it. Xanxus appears almost happy, grating his lump of meat and cutting off his self-stuffing only to down a mouthful of tequila. Fran doesn’t even want to guess what kind of shape the man’s internal organs are in.

He’s not looking around, he’s just trying to concentrate on his meal, but tuteur Bel’s gaze haunts him across the table. The prince’s eyes are not visible but Fran has spent too many hours with the blond to be able to sense when he’s being watched. Bel is not being exactly subtle about it, sitting with his back straightened up and head turned towards Fran.

What was the tutor expecting to see when he opened the door to Fran’s bathroom?

“I reckon Signora Mancini has come to stay for good,” Lussuria is cooing when the dessert, a luscious tiramisu cake, is brought to the table. Fran sighs inwardly, when the red lump of meat is replaced with the chocolate and espresso smelling delicacy. This one he actually manages to eat.

When the dinner is nearing the finish line, Fran loses the patience to not open his mouth, even though he knows he’s probably going to get his ass kicked, either by the commander or his tutor. But in most cases, it’s worth it as he can speak his mind.

“Long-haired idiot-commander,” he begins, and Squalo lifts his head from his tiramisu. Fran has taken note of the commander getting so used to his nicknames he doesn’t rumble about them anymore. “Did you order Tuteur Bel to intrude in my bathroom while I’m in it?”

“VOIIII?! What the actual fuck?” Squalo slams his fork into his dessert with such a force that the plate is shattered. Pieces of tiramisu splash on the table, on his white shirt and onto the side of Lussuria’s glass. Fran’s eyes graze on Xanxus but so far the boss is ignoring them.

“Tuteur Bel said that you told him to yank the door open while I’m in the bathroom.”

“I most definitely have not said anything like that!” Squalo rages.

“Yes, you have. You said it this morning, Commander,” Bel points out.

“Why would I say something like that, you miserable troll?!”

“As a matter of fact, you said so, Commander Squalo,” Levi remarks. “It was when Be–“

”Voiii, keep your fucking mouth shut about things you don’t understand!” Squalo nails his flaming grey eyes on Bel. “And you should have a smidgen of discretion before you call yourself a genius, frigging caricature of a prince! Not everything needs to be taken literally. You jump off a bridge if I tell you to, do you?”

“Certainly not. I might bruise my royal features.”

”Learn to use your consideration on other things as well!”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you said so.”

“You were the one who thought Fran was a chick!”

Wait a minute. What? _What?!_

Bel stares at Squalo, face expressionless, for almost ten seconds before the Cheshire grin ruptures his lips. “Ushishishi!”

“What?”

“Did you actually buy it, Commander?”

Squalo’s tone turns threatening. “What?”

“Shishi, the prince was just messing with you. I wouldn’t really think Fran was a chick now, would I?”

Squalo glances at Levi who merely shrugs. Lussuria starts to cluck in thick Romanesco. Mammon goes on with her eating, but mumbles under her breath business ideas, how to best profit from the actions of the imbeciles surrounding her. Xanxus shifts his weight and Levi hurries to fill the boss’ schnapps glass, not because he needs a glass but because sometimes Varia members like to pretend to be civilised. Bel chuckles for a short while, but the laughter dies as the prince catches Fran’s eyes.

Fran is completely flabbergasted. He doesn’t remember being this perplexed after getting over the shock caused by meeting the Varia for the first time. This is Bel’s move in their new, psychological combat? Fran quite fails to see in what way embarrassing Commander Squalo would score the fake prince some points, though the situation is balancing on the verge of awkward.

Little does Fran know, this is only the beginning.


	3. Act II

**Act II - A foot massage is nothing, I give my mother a foot massage**

 

Because tuteur Bel was the youngest member of the Varia before Fran, coaching the rookie to fit within the rows of the elite group has been the prince’s duty. Fran considers his training self-obtained, since the blond appears to have only two kinds of teaching methods: lying on the couch or tossing knives at his subordinate. More often than once Fran has walked alone to the training area and practised his illusions in his own company after his tutor has declined to get out of the bed. As if the moron-tutor knew anything about the skills Fran’s mind is capable of.

Today it’s a different story. Tuteur Bel is standing at his doorstep at nine am, telling him to get dressed because they are going to _train_ today. The way the blond says the word indicates to Fran that something’s really going to happen. He will be forced to use other skills besides verbal ones.

And so it occurs. Besides the fact that today Bel is serious, Mammon is also there. The Arcobaleno helps Fran in creating wider and more sustainable illusions, despite muttering under her breath about payments she is going to require for her services. Fran is forced to concentrate, clear his mind of anything unnecessary in order to not get in the way of his tutor’s knives. After working with Mammon for so many years Bel is experienced in recognising illusions but Fran manages to catch the prince off guard couple of times.

In the evening Fran is tired. No, he’s exhausted. A mild contentment is tickling his mind. Mammon aka Viper is one of the strongest illusionists in the world, in the same class with his Master, and Fran feels like he has actually learned something today. Made some progress. His stay with the Varia appears to have some sense for a change.

After the dinner, Tuscan chicken made by amazing Signora Mancini, Fran feels ready to call it a night but instead finds himself wandering to the living room. His tuteur is sprawled on the couch, arms spread on the back rest and feet hoisted on the small coffee table beside a bowl of popcorns and a couple of beer bottles. The blond has taken off his uniform, and is wearing a pair of sweatpants and a thin shirt. There was a fire in the fireplace that afternoon and the room is warm. Mammon is balancing on the arm rest next to Bel, eyes hooded as usual, her frog partner Fantasma slouching on her head. Why must Fran still wear his irritating hat even though Mammon is back? The meaning of the whole stupid widget was just to make him a Mammon’s replacement.

The sound of the TV is hovering through the room, a late night movie is starting. The Shining, Kubrick’s version. It’s been a while since Fran has seen the film. Tuteur Bel seems to be as worn-out as him, so maybe it’s possible to watch the movie in peace. Fran parks on the opposite end of the couch, leaving one and a half cushions between them. On the screen, young Jack Nicholson sits down to have a talk with the manager of the Overlook Hotel about his future assignment, which – as everyone who’s seen the movie knows – will end in the legendary axe hunt in the hotel hallways and in the crooked labyrinth.

“Who gave you the Reality Illusion Gloves? Was it Verde?” Mammon suddenly asks Fran.

“Yeah, him.”

The Arcobaleno thinks for a moment. “For free?”

“Not quite.” Verde is not after money. He claims his payment in other means, in this case by forcing Fran to take part in his research. Fran doesn’t look back to those times willingly.

Bel dips his head lazily, first towards Fran and then Mammon. “By the way, did anyone tell Commander Squalo that the roc bird lingering in the backyard isn’t real?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Shishishi. Hopefully Commander is not going to look there.”

“Well, Squalo is smart, he will figure out there are no such creatures, even if he happens to see it through the window. Besides, the bird will be gone by the morning,” Mammon rationalises.

Because Reality Illusions are controlled by Fran, the roc bird hasn’t got much of its own will. When its creator disappeared inside the mansion, the huge creature settled down on the lawn. It should be harmless but admittedly a bird the size of a jumbo jet may cause unnecessary attention amongst the eye witnesses.

“What the fuck was that second illusion of yours supposed to be?” Bel wants to know. “Is it the Easter Bunny you illusionists nowadays scare your opponents with?”

“Haven’t you seen Donnie Darko? That rabbit suit is creepy as hell,” Fran defends himself.

“No, I haven’t but apparently after this I need to.” Bel grabs the popcorn bowl and hands it over to Fran. “Here, have some.”

Only his tuteur can stuff his face with snacks after that huge-ass chicken meal. Fran understands very well why Lussuria has compared Bel to a black hole. The fake prince can down food like a hippo.

Just because Fran is Fran and sometimes his tongue behaves a bit too independently, he somehow happens to blurt his comparison aloud.

“Shut your face, frog! You are the one pecking like a fucking sparrow!” Bel throws a handful of popcorn on his face. Fran takes cover but surprisingly, the punishment remains as that. Either the tutor is really, really tired or his suspicious patience is a part of the brand new torture plan. Fran eats the popcorns gathered in his lap, but he’s still full from the dinner and lets Bel keep his snack. However, he accepts a beer the blond offers next.

Tuteur Bel usually only offers him a shoe image on the buttocks. Something is going on.

The beer is unopened so Fran dares to take a sip. It’s a cheap lager, Corona, which is consumed abundantly in these regions. Fran is not the biggest fan of beer, but he can down a bottle once in a while. On TV the family has nested in the mysterious hotel, the little boy Danny is driving his tricycle in the hallways, the music foreshadowing a sudden fright. Bel and Mammon quiet down to watch the movie and Fran follows the example. He pulls his legs up on the couch, leans back as far as he can with his over-sized headgear, relaxing.

The movie is as tormenting as Fran remembered but he’s not the type to be startled by special effects. The beer numbs his mind, and his limbs start to wind out. He feels almost comfortable, but then his stupid tutor must ruin the valuable free time.

When the commercial break hits the screen, the blond lifts his feet off the table and turns to Fran. “Rub the prince’s feet, frog.”

Fran almost chokes on his beer. He lowers the bottle from his lips and places it on the table. “Why, idiot-tuteur?”

“Because the prince’s feet ache, and when the prince commands, peasants obey.”

“You are not a prince.”

“Get to work or I’ll stab the air out of you!”

Fran is fuming inside, but he really has no choice. _Master Mukuro would never have told me to rub his sweaty toes._ He keeps his face blank as he grabs the other foot covered with striped sock. Wow, the tutor apparently really likes stripes. His eyes wander onto Mammon, remarking the look on Arcobaleno’s face. The hood covers the upper part of the face but surprise is still visible. The other illusionist thinks Bel is behaving oddly, too.

Bel gives the impression nothing weird is going on. He has turned diagonally on the couch, so that his feet reach Fran’s lap, head facing the TV, as he continues to watch the movie.

_At least he has changed his socks to clean ones_ , Fran notes while working one bony foot. Nobody has told him to give a massage before and he’s not familiar with any fancy techniques. Tuteur must settle for what is available or call for Lussuria. _Had I known I'd be forced to undertake such a shitty job, I’d rather have stayed back home sweeping my grandma’s floors._

“Tuteur Bel, I have to take off my hat.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. It pushes my head down. My neck hurts. I can’t concentrate on your feet if my own muscles are cramped.”

Bel is weighing his words. Fran expects to hear that in under no circumstances is he allowed to remove his ridiculous headwear, but this time the prince gives in. “Take it off then. You goddamn wimp.”

Satisfied with his small victory, Fran pulls the frog off his head. If he could, he would splatter it with petrol and throw into the fireplace. It’s sweaty, it muffles his senses, makes his hair static and greasy, and what’s worst, it constantly reminds him of his low ranking in the elite assassin squad. He knows doormats that are treated better.

They get back to watching the movie. Fran tries to follow the story while still working the feet weighing down in his lap. Bel sinks into the couch looking extremely content, laying his head down on the armrest so that Mammon gets to lean on it. The arrangement would make a great photo for the Family Portrait of the Year contest.

Except it’s too intimate. Fran and Bel don’t exactly touch each other apart from the occasions when Bel is either kicking or hitting him. Fran wonders if the prince is not feeling awkward, but apparently in his little twisted world it’s normal for commoners to rub the aching limbs of their ruler. His hands get tired soon, his rubbing becoming ineffective, when the stress of the day starts to do its work. But every time he stops his massaging for a second, tuteur Bel wiggles his toes, nudges his hand and urges him to continue. The prince shamelessly enjoys lowering Fran into the role of a servant.

After the second commercial break Bel starts squirming. Lifts his foot just when Fran is about to grab it, crosses his ankles only to open them again, shifts his weight, straightens his shirt. Fran is about to tell the idiot tutor to stay put if he wants the treatment to continue but the blond tugs his feet to himself and quickly turns to sit properly, his body facing the screen. 

“Enough, disgusting frog. Your massage is so crappy I’ll soon get a rash.”

“My apologies, fake-prince, but I haven’t studied the mechanical manipulation of tissues.”

A certain feeling is nagging Fran. A feeling that Bel leaves something unsaid. It’s not about his massaging skills. If his rubbing had been that horrible, the prince would have let him hear about it earlier. Something else is amiss. A light gauze of red tints prince’s pale cheeks, as if he was enraged or abruptly fallen ill. Fran lets it slide because watching the movie is by far more enjoyable without his tutor’s hard heels.

But because they live in the headquarters of the Varia, enjoyable movie moments tend to remain as a rarity. Just when Fran is floating back to the tranquillity, Commander Squalo emerges at the living room door.

“VOIII! What the hell is going on here?”

Fran peeks over his shoulder. Squalo seems to have charged in straight from the shower, a bathrobe barely wrapped around his torso and silvery-white hair dripping water on the floor.

“We are watching a movie, long-haired moron-commander,” Fran points out the obvious.

“Explain why there is a fucking huge eagle in the backyard!”

“It’s a roc bird, and why would you think we have anything to do with it?”

Squalo is so furious Fran suspects that any minute now, he’s going to rip his skin off. “VOOOIII, GET THAT LOON THE HELL OUT OF HERE BEFORE THE BOSS SEES IT!”

“It will be gone on its own by the morning.”

“ _You_ will be gone by the morning if you don’t do something about it!”

Dawdling, Fran gets up the couch. It’s useless to try to talk to Commander Squalo when he’s taken that mood – which is more often than usually. Walking to the door, Fran feels an inkling of air current whisking his hair and ducks a millisecond before the giant frog hits the back of his head.

“Don’t forget your hat, toad!”

Tuteur Bel is acting normal for a change. Fran picks up his headgear and buries his hair into it before stepping out. On TV, little Danny goes to the forbidden room and finds a living corpse in the tub. Screaming is suppressed when Fran walks down the hall to get his gloves and coat.

To tell the truth, he doesn’t have a clue how one gets rid of a Reality Illusion. He’s always waited for them to disappear on their own. He needs to ask, but in Japan they’re living in the wee hours of the night and Master Mukuro will absolutely _murder_ him if woken by a ringing cell phone. Perhaps Verde knows, he’s the one who gave Fran the gloves in the first place.

*** * ***

Mammon can’t see Bel’s eyes. Bel can’t see hers. Covering the upper part of the face is one of those quirks they share; Bel with his hair, Mammon with her hood. But Mammon is able to read the boy, who she has lived with for over a decade. Bel is sitting uncomfortably, shoulders constricted, feet pressed down against the table edge, while he’s trying to mask his breathing as normal, even though his pulse visibly throbs in the veins of the neck. He fingers his hair, snorts at an annoying commercial. The popcorn bowl is lying on the table, forgotten.

Mammon probably understands him better than anyone – as far as it’s possible to understand a person who trademarked the word ‘nutcase’. The Arcobaleno has noticed that something’s bothering the blond.

And that something is associated with the new illusionist of the Varia.

When Fran has left to get rid of the roc bird (Mammon knows how Reality Illusions are deleted but she’s not going the share the information for free) and Squalo has also taken his leave, she brings the subject up.

“Okay, boy, what’s the concern?” she begins. “You are permitted to share it with me confidentially for the nominal fee of a mere twenty euros.”

Bel eyes her. ”What the fuck? I don’t have anything to share with you.”

“Alright, you may talk for free, but only this once. And for god’s sake, don’t tell anyone!”

“What do I need to talk about?”

At least he’s covering it well. Mammon catches only a slight dip in his voice.

“About the stuff that’s bothering you.”

“Nothing’s bothering me. What the hell are you blathering about?”

“Has something happened between you and the brat?”

“Why’d you think that? Should something have happened?” Bel grunts. ”The frog is just getting on my nerves. Squalo should have dumped him to be a nuisance to someone else. What babysitter am I?” The prince straightens his neck so fiercely the tiara falls on the couch. Mammon clams up, pays her attention again to the TV, but keeps following the young man’s reaction from the corner of her eye. Bel exhales before picking up the tiara and adjusting it back to his head. From outside, a dinosaur-like bellowing can be heard. The roc bird seems to be disagreeing with his creator.

“You know,” she begins again when she senses the prince has settled a bit. “Before I was turned into an Arcobaleno…”

She immediately catches Bel’s undivided interest. She never talks about her life before the transformation, and she’s not planning to blab now either, only so much as is needed to nudge the blond to the direction of enlightenment. 

“There was this person,” she proceeds. “A certain… guy.”

Bel’s lips form ‘the fuck’, but there’s no sound. The prince is looking at her. Listening.

“I was really young – and stupid as youngsters usually are. The guy, well… he was only a teenager back then, and we used to sit next to each other in the class. And damn, how annoying could that guy be. The way he opened his schoolbooks, how he spoke, how he was the best of the class in basketball… and the way he teased girls. He wrote on their benches, called them flat-chested and cock-teasing bitches. I really wanted to strangle him.”

“I hope you did.”

“Not all of us were assassins in their teens.” Mammon winks even though she knows Bel can’t see it. “One day I realised why he pissed me off so much.”

“Because he was a retard?”

“Because I had a crush on him.” _Insignificant people don’t get under your skin, my dear Bel._

Mammon fails to identify which feeling is reflected more clearly on Bel’s face, rage or amazement. For a second she wonders whether she’s going to get stabbed, after stepping on the area no one has had the courage to poke before. Because now they are talking about Bel’s honour. And vulnerability, since a person with emotions is always more exposed to pain. She is unsure if the blond sees through her story, because it is and isn’t true, it really is a John Smith of all stories, everyone has one of their own. It could have happened to Mammon, and it probably has, at the time she cared more for people than money, and she just can’t remember.

Then Bel pulls himself together, laughs a bit, flicks his hair, and slides his attention back to the screen. “What a moving story.”

“Yes, it is.”

“That means it’s utter bullshit.”

Smile creeps to Mammon’s lips. “Yes, it is.”

She doesn’t say a word after that, and neither does Bel. But she already knows.

It’s not her business, and frankly, she doesn’t give a damn, whether the prince cries himself to sleep or not. But she’s curious to see how the situation’s going to evolve. Furthermore, if she found someone to make a bet with... Someone who’s got a hunch of what _might_ be (because so far Fran appears to be clueless about his tutor’s feelings) going on between the two youngest members of the Varia. Lussuria perhaps. Xanxus is only interested in things he can eat or shoot, Squalo is too full of himself, and Levi wouldn’t notice an elephant even if it stepped on him.

She must pry if the official Gaylord of the Varia has taken any notice. You’d think a rainbow recognises another when they see one.

Mammon sniggers a bit at the metaphor.

Some interesting times might be dawning in the Varia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mammon’s metaphor, albeit I guess people familiar with KHR know this: arcobaleno = rainbow in Italian.
> 
> I know the majority of KHR fan base probably considers Mammon as a male, but in my head the little illusionist’s always been a girl. :)


	4. Act III

**Act III – I feel like I’m taking crazy pills!**

 

“Feed it! It can’t live without food, you know.”

“But Tuteur, the natural diet of eagles consists of medium-sized mammals and fish.” Maybe the roc bird technically is not an eagle, but it looks enough like one for Fran to define its preferences.

“That’s crap. Birds eat insects. Go find it some beetles and worms. You’ll get some grub for yourself as well. Aren’t bugs supposed to be real treats for frogs?”

“Idiot-tuteur, do you realise how many insects I need to collect to feed a bird of that size?”

Apparently Bel doesn’t realise. The prince offers him kids’ sandbox tools, a tiny bucket, and a plastic shovel, and Fran reluctantly accepts them. The roc bird is crouching on the lawn in front of them, which is strange since Fran is pretty sure he got rid of it after a dozen tries. And yet there it lingers, an eagle-like head tilting from one side to another, spreading its wings and wailing deep in its throat. 

“Get going! Squalo will be out in a minute and start complaining and I have no wishes to become deaf. We have to keep the beast satisfied.”

Fran goes. He scans the lawn, looking for a place to start digging. He tries a couple of spots but the ground is too dry, the soil dusts off his shovel. Worms don’t thrive in this damned Sahara. He manages to catch a few beetles hidden in the sand and compliantly carries them over to his illusion turned to flesh.

But what the hell? While he’s been scrabbling dirt, his tutor has enchanted a bucket of popcorns out of thin air and is now hurling snacks into the gape of the winged monster.

“Tuteur Bel, I don’t think…” Fran begins but then halts. Why the hell should he care if the bird eats popcorn? It’s an illusion that should vanish soon (why hasn’t it already?). It can’t get the gripes. He’s frustrated though, because Bel could have said he intends to feed the creature his popcorn instead of sending Fran to hunt for bugs.

Bel turns to him and his expression puzzles Fran. Surprise is visible on the prince’s face as if this was the first time he saw the young illusionist. The blond pushes the roc’s head away and offers him the popcorn basket. “Fran, are you going to have some, too?”

“No thanks.” Fran is not thrilled to eat from the same container as a bird.

Bel grabs a handful of popcorn and jams it into his mouth, all at once and in a way that resembles Byakuran’s manic marshmallow gobbling. “Wsht, frg? Guu pprcsnh!” Crumbs are flying onto the blond’s shirt and lawn. Bel is capable of retaining his grin while chewing food so the grain shucks are visible to anyone who feels like entertaining themselves by watching such activity.

Fran realises his poker face is gone. His jaw gives in and drops, his eyes boggling. “Tuteur, is that proper behaviour for a prince?”

“Would you like some popcorn, Fran?” Bel’s voice is almost friendly. No, not almost. It is friendly. Fran finds it difficult to identify since he’s never heard it before.

“No, thank you, I told you already.”

“Don’t be shy. Please have some.”

_What the fuck?_ “I don’t want your stupid popcorn, you thick-skulled fake-prince.”

“It’s very impolite to refuse a royal’s hospitality. In some countries, you might get hanged for it.”

“Luckily we are not living in such a country and here you are no different from a regular citizen.”

For some reason Bel doesn’t get mad. He tucks his hand into his snack bucket and pulls out another handful. “Here you go, you can have the rest.”

Fran’s understanding is quickly approaching to its end. “Tuteur Be–” Popcorns hit his face. They are like greasy pebbles, pinching and leaving oily stains. “Tuteur, would you mind stopping that? You are behaving like five-year-old spoiled brat.” If you really start to think about it, the only thing separating Bel from the description is his appearance.

Bel answers by hurling another batch of snack on him. Is he imagining things or have the tutor’s hands suddenly become larger? At least they can hold a shitload of popcorn! Fran raises his arms to cover his face when he finds himself a target of a machine gun strafe. Popcorns are flying to his face like warm, greasy hailstones, crawling in his collar and boots. Some of them sneak through the waistband of his trousers even though the long coat should protect it. What the hell is going on? He’ll be the first person to win a Darwin Award due to dying in a popcorn overload without actually eating them!

Fran’s eyes fly open to the darkness of the room. His whole body is curled, and he’s thrown his arm across his face to protect it. The grease of popcorns is still pawing his face, shucks stinging beneath his clothes, salt pushing its way into his pores. Only when he jolts up, the image disappears and chilly night air rushes to his skin.

Fran exhales long and hard and collapses back on the bed. _Wow, I can’t recall when was the last time I had a dream as stupid as that one!_

And out of all the people and things, it had to be about Bel. Dreams should be his free time, moments when he gets a break from his airheaded tutor. Couldn’t he have dreamed of tonight’s movie? Because he’d rather have encountered that half-rotten zombie bitch or axe-wielding Jack Nicholson.

Images of popcorn rain return as he closes his eyes, crumbs are again stinging his back. Fran checks the time. It’s only one o’clock, he’s been asleep for little over an hour. Should he read a book? Coelho’s rambling could knock out a coffee bean high on ecstasy. Fran is already fumbling at his nightstand for the book when his stomach lets out a grunt.

An immediate reaction to dreams featuring food: hunger. Though based on the role food presented itself in the dream, he should primarily be feeling nauseous. He tries to ignore the growling, but naturally it only gets worse. Maybe he should have eaten some popcorn when it was offered.

Well, there’s nothing wrong with a little nightly snacking. Fran heaves himself up and heads for the kitchen.

*** * ***

Fran’s dream doesn’t even begin to compare to the mood in which Bel startles himself awake. His body trembles like the one of a newly-hatched baby bird, even though he’s about to suffocate under the thick duvet. Based on the ache in his jaw joints he has gritted his teeth _hard_. During his short sleep, his skin has multiplied the amount of sense receptors. There’s a fiery pulse throbbing beneath his waist line. Every brush of the sheets makes his groin convulse threateningly.

To put it bluntly, he’s on the verge of bursting; about to jizz his pants like a bloody teenager.

He hasn’t done such a thing for over ten years and he’s not going to do it now. Bel snatches a handkerchief from his nightstand drawer before sliding his hand to the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down, and grabbing himself. A soft hiss escapes his lips as his fingers curl around the aching length. 

_The prince should not need to settle for his own help._

But of course he has to, because he’s not able to go to the city every time he’d like to and there are no potential bed mates available in this oasis of crackpots.

Or there hasn’t been before the latest change in their personnel.

His dream starts its replay, the pale, heart-shaped face forming on his retinas. Mint green hair dangling on the forehead, the full lower lip of otherwise so small mouth, those expressionless irises shimmering beneath the heavy lids. Human eyes shouldn’t be so big. They shouldn’t be so _green_. The whole bearing radiates indifference and yet...

_’Thanks, Tuteur. Good job!’_

Bel’s teeth scrunch against each other.

Just how old is that brat anyway? Sixteen, seventeen? Bel is ten years older. He really is out of his mind, really _matto_ like everyone says.

He doesn’t even know at which point his mind has made its turnaround. At which point an annoying imp turned into an object of daydreams? When he started to look forward to seeing the kid and caught himself staring at him? When was the first time that his body announced it wants that skinny, passive creature? At what point did his traitor of a body decide to arrange a raging boner due to the brat’s miserable massage?

Bel could get anyone. Anyone he ever wanted! There have been women who the former prime minister would be jealous of in his bed, and what is his choice? A pimple-faced, teenage toad who has made insulting his tutor his mission of life.

Okay, maybe Fran doesn’t have pimples but he can’t really be called a sex object either. He doesn’t even carry himself right! His whole frame screams how unaccustomed he is to physical action. Maybe he’s grown a little from his beginning and nowadays can keep up with the other Varia, thanks to Bel’s strict training, but he is still a pathetic rendition for an assassin.

Bel wonders if illusionists are able to affect people’s feelings.

He curses silently, his back arching as he comes into his hand. The climax is short, unsatisfying, a quick drop, but it defuses his tension and tames haunting thoughts. Perhaps he just needs to get laid and should find a cheap tart to satisfy his physical urges. Better still, if he could slash her throat open after the act, he would feel more like himself again.

Except that Commander Squalo has prohibited him of killing prostitutes. Too much paperwork, apparently. And Bel doesn’t necessarily want whore’s blood to tarnish his royal sheets. But he could pick up a girl in a bar and go to her place. He’s an assassin; he knows how to do his job without sprinkling clues, even if he loves to leave the signature of Prince the Ripper on sight. 

He crawls out the bed and wanders to the bathroom, drops the wet handkerchief into the toilet and washes his hands. The chilly air is creeping on his bare chest. Fuck, this house gets cold during the fall. At some point of the winter the heating starts to work but before that the members of the Varia are forced to freeze their asses for weeks. Some of the big manor’s rooms stay permanently cold. You’d think that the most powerful assassin squad of the most powerful mafia family could afford a proper central heating, but no… Bel irrigates his eyes, arranges the fringe back in front of them and returns to the room to stare numbly at his bed. It’s pointless to even think he’d manage to go to sleep again. Thoughts are already waddling slower, but his tiredness is gone.

Damn that Mammon, for telling him her lame sob story!

Bel is certain that the night’s conversation connived at his dream. Those rare times Mammon talks about something else than money, the story immediately sinks into his subconscious. Bel knows a thing or two of the Arcobaleno, thanks to their long friendship (Mammon is the only being in the world besides Mink who Bel calls his friend). And this is what incurs if you let somebody close to you. People learn to know each other.

Mammon has seen through Bel, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Eliminating the Arcobaleno is out of the question, and she hardly responds to threats. He can only hope she doesn’t find a gimmick to earn money with the issue because then it will spread around.

He puts on his shirt and his sweatpants and leaves his room, hoping he’d find something to stab in the long hallways of the manor.

*** * ***

Footsteps make Fran lift his head from the toast he is coating with a centimeter-thick layer of Nutella. In the wee hours it is possible to listen to the silence even in the Varia household, and that’s what he’s been doing, admired the ticking of the clock, the gurgling of the fridge, and the squeaking of the wind in the loose window frames. The joy is short-lived.

He recognises the rhythm of the steps, and correctly, his tutor appears in the kitchen door. The blond hair is messy, hands lay limp in the pockets, the body sagging. Although that’s how he always moves, when they are off duty, as if his spine was made of gum. On the other hand, while on duty… what Fran has seen of Bel’s physical abilities, the blond possesses the agility of a cougar.

The tutor stalls after seeing him, lifts his chin, the body freezing but only for a second. Fran thinks he sees a surprise on tuteur’s face and maybe that is, though nightly visits to the kitchen are not that uncommon in this house. The prince recovers quickly, huffs to himself and passes the island as if Fran wasn’t there. Fran waits until the blond has bent over to delve the fridge before opening his mouth. 

“Tuteur Bel, did you fail at your royal beauty sleep? Or did you have a dream unsuitable for a prince?”

Bel jerks backwards and bangs his head on the top edge of the fridge. Fran’s hand stops, the Nutella knife lingering on the toast.

_Fuck, what did I say?_

Fran observes half-surprised, half-amused, as his tutor rubs the back of his head and glowers at him. He knows when Bel glowers, even though he can’t see the eyes. There’s a very certain feeling emitting from the gaze of a murderous prince. But hey, who told him to stick his head in the fridge?

“No,” Fran continues. “You are probably just hungry again. After all, you only ate half a chicken, a cow’s serving of salad, four pieces of the lemon cake and a bowl of popcorn.”

“Shut the fuck up, you scabby little reptile,” Bel hisses.

“Frogs are not reptiles.”

”Maybe not, but both definitions describe you perfectly. Besides who’s the one gluttonizing here? White bread and Nutella in the middle of the night? If you decline the meals high in protein and ingest only sweets and wheat flour, you’ll reach the measures of a champion show pig in six months.”

“Yeah, there’s always that risk”, Fran states and offers the Nutella jar. “You want some?”

Bel looks like he’s going to reshape the illusionist’s face with nothing but a butter knife. Fran shrugs and shakes the jar lightly as if to lure a reluctant cat, and suddenly Bel’s anger subsides.

“Give it to me then.” Bel snatches the jar off of his hand and circles to the opposite side of the island. He slumps on the bar stool, shakes a pair of toast out of the sachet and starts to dig chocolate paste from the jar, absent-minded.

Fran munches his own toast in silence, following his tuteur’s tinkering. Bel hasn’t mentioned his missing hat. Maybe he accepts the fact that Fran can’t sleep with a gadget size of a beach ball on his head.

As the quietness stretches, Fran remembers their rivalry, if it can be called one. If it even exists. Perhaps he’s just imagined the whole thing. Nonetheless, the time and place seem favourable for a small snub.

“Bel-tuteur, did you actually think I was a female?” Fran has and hasn’t been dying to ask this. Bringing it up may toss him in the path of the knives and the answer doesn’t necessarily possess rhyme or reason, but the issue has been bugging him. Besides, nothing is more enjoyable than astonishing the fake prince when his guard is down.

Unexpectedly, Bel doesn’t get mad. Instead he laughs a bit. “Of course not. Shishishi, you don’t come across chicks that ugly even on foreign planets.”

“Why..?”

“Because Commander Squalo and that amoeba-brained octopus asked for it.”

“But why..?” _You yanked my bathroom door open just for the heck of it?_

“Because I was bored,” the blond says as it was the most natural cause – as it is in the case of a lunatic. “For a long time now nothing entertaining has happened.”

Note to self: _From now on, always lock the bathroom door._ The lock will not hold the prince but at least it will slow him down for Fran to button up his pants.

“Ah,” Fran hems. “And here I thought your brain is missing some kind of factor specialised to identify the sexes.”

Bel takes a bite of his toast and shrugs. “You think a lot of stupid stuff, frog.”

“It could also be that you just can’t see well. You always walk around with your hair over your eyes. It’s a miracle you don’t bump into things more often.” In fact Bel never bumps into things, but Fran has taken notice of the prince’s uncharacteristic calmness and his cunning side itches to test just how far he can take it before Bel snaps.

“Would you like to find out how well I see, snot-nose? I can easily swap my target, if you yearn for a presentation.”

Fran has served as Bel’s target for so long the threat doesn’t sway him.

“To be serious, Tuteur,” Fran changes his tactics. “Why do you dangle your fringe over your eyes? I suppose you have a reason for it.” He’s just assumed that like the sheikhs negotiating of oil fields, Bel has figured out how easy it is to read a person’s thoughts in their eyes. It’s a reason Fran could understand. He himself has been working years to achieve a perfect poker face.

“The prince must hide his nationality, since the revelation would cause an international conflict. The UN would declare an emergency and the superpowers would attack each other.”

The pompous declaration meets a feeble reception. Fran includes it in the same category as the blond’s other drivels: the whining of an embittered royal who has lost his entitlement to the crown. Bel is naturally blond, looks like a Northern or Eastern European and has lived in Italy long enough for his accent to not stand out from the native population. So his home country can’t be concluded from… well, anything. Secondly, no superpower is interested in an heir apparent of some flyspeck country.

“Meh, it’s more probable that Tuteur Bel’s eyes are just as ugly as sin.”

Bel raises his hand on his face and flicks. The audience (ergo three fruit flies scavenging a bowl of apples and a spider hiding in the crack of the wall) startles. Fran ceases his bitching.

Oh. _Oh._

He’s been expecting a red-blazing insanity, the same kind of gaze the boss has. The gaze that sees the surrounding world as a playground, an object for brutal slaying, a possibility for executing crude desires. The gaze of The Joker from the Dark Knight. _’How about a magic trick?’_

Who would have thought that a person so clearly measuring up to a madman could have so… well-balanced eyes?

Almond-shaped and generously lashed, the lids rest calmly over the ice blue irises, the pupils travelling between Fran’s eyes, following his reactions. Tuteur suddenly looks like a totally different person.

Bel is – Fran questions himself of even thinking such thing and some cell hidden deeply within him blushes – beautiful.

Something twitches beneath his breastbone.

Masking his astonishment by getting rid of his toast, he sits quietly and munches on the rest of his treat, swallows, rinses his mouth with water… and then something unprecedented slips from his lips. “Alright, Tuteur Bel, you win this round.”

Bel allows blond wisps to fall back over his eyes and flashes a grin. “Shishi, good that even once in your life you understand your own benefit, froggy.”

Fran takes a new sip of his glass, his eyes sweeping the island’s granite surface. His insides are burning up, but he fails to identify the reason. Why is he suddenly feeling so awkward? He’s afraid he’s going to blurt something incredibly stupid if he opens his mouth again.

And naturally Bel asks and forces him to talk. “Why is the peasant up at this time of the night?”

“I had a nightmare,” Fran answers truthfully. He hopes Bel is not going to ask because…

”About what?”

Well, crap. “About the fake-prince’s sweaty toes.”

“The prince’s toes are not sweaty!” Bel flares up. “And if someone had to have nightmare it should be the prince. Your massage was so horrible I might have to request a sick leave from Commander Squalo.”

“Now you know not to ask me next time. Lussuria probably knows how to better do it. Actually, you could arrange a wonderful spa night, pour some bath salts into the tub, stew in it with candles fluttering on the background, and rub lavender oil into each other like two spoilt princesses.” _Or two extremely, flamboyantly gay men._

Fran has never found out just exactly where Bel hides his knives and he doesn’t necessarily even need to find out, but he knows he’s crossed the line when the prince raises his hand and between each finger shines a sinister blade. He shuts his mouth, his Adam’s apple springing.

“There, there, now, what are you two youngsters bickering over here in the middle of the night?”

Fran’s shoulders sag in relief. Lussuria has a perfect timing. The Muay Thai expert tiptoes to the kitchen in his pink dressing gown and fluffy slippers and stalls in front of the island, hands landing on the hips as he takes over his role of a big sister. 

“Listen, you’ve probably heard that nightly eating is not healthy. Wasn’t there enough dinner? Bel, you ate half of the dessert by yourself. Try to remember, dear, that you are not a growing boy anymore.”

One of the best things in Lussuria is that nobody, not Bel, not Squalo, not even the boss, gets angry at him. Lussuria is simply so sweet and patient that any kind of rampaging will be wasted. There’s something really soothing about the presence of the Sun Guardian. No wonder his box animal is a healing peacock.

The mohawk-haired man slaps his hands together. “Well, since you’ve already taken the toasts out, I might as well have one myself.” He slides on the bar stool and starts smearing Nutella on his own snack. “What were you talking about?”

_Erm, you and Bel in a bubble bath._

“Tuteur Bel’s sweaty feet,” Fran says out loud. Lightnings dash to his side of the table, as the tutor’s anger meter turns back on red.

”Oh my, you don’t have a sweating problem, do you, Bel?” Lussuria cries out. “You do know that even embarrassing problems can be treated? Next time we visit a farma–“

“The prince doesn’t have a problem!” Bel bursts. “The prince’s feet are not sweaty! The little filth is sniffing the excretions inside his own head! Keep your snotty garbage trap shut, you lowlife. You are the one smelling like a rotten swamp!”

“Oh dear, please don’t argue, boys. You are team mates, you should get along,” Lussuria gently scolds. Bel falls silent, but the outburst leaves red spots burning on pale cheeks. Fran suspects that if he had a chance to peek, the calmness of the prince’s eyes would have vanished.

He has won the second round of the night. He managed to embarrass his tutor who is now positively fuming. He hasn’t exactly kept a record of their combat but Bel has a narrow edge. Should he break into the prince’s bathroom to get them even?

The idea is oddly tempting.

But no, it must be something more inventive. Repeating the actions of tuteur would present Fran as an unimaginative copycat. He just needs to wait patiently for the right moment. Like now, opportunities turn up abruptly, Fran just needs to make the most of them.

Yes, Fran muses, picking up the Nutella jar and making himself one more chocolate-coated toast, for his imagination coming up with the next attack shouldn’t be a challenge.


	5. Act IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I keep forgetting I'm posting this fic here, too. Anyway, I appreciate every kudo and comment! Good to know somebody is reading this. :)

**Act IV – A nutless monkey could do your job**

 

“Not a peep, shrimp.”

“I haven’t said a word.”

Bel holds Fran against the wall with his arm and peeks around the corner. Since the blond doesn’t jerk his head back, Fran assumes the room to be empty. Fingers wave him to follow, and Fran tiptoes after the prince to a space reeking of mould, chemicals, and sweat. Something in their position bugs him, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.

It’s a simple assignment. One of the members of the CEDEF has taken to the hills, taking with him a grand pile of squad’s inside information. The job is ridiculously easy to any member of the Varia but sometimes it’s good to boost the success rate with mundane tasks. Commander Squalo would have taken over the assignment – the sick leave starts to pall the sword man accustomed to constant action – but his hand is not well enough for attaching the prosthesis. But hey, shouldn’t Fran get some extra training?

Bel complained that he’d rather have gone by himself or with Mammon but Squalo’s orders are rarely up to questioning. Prince the Ripper and Frog the Illusionist are sent out for the task.

They have tracked the traitor, a man called Ortica, down to a basement of a rickety Milanese nightclub. Beneath the dirty business ran even dirtier affairs, and it’s probable that Ortica intends to sell his information for a notable price. They have ten minutes to locate and eliminate the man before dancers scuttle downstairs for an outfit change.

Okay, so instead of a nightclub the place could be called a strip club. Fran has never been to a strip club. His visits to bars can be counted with the fingers of one hand, and he doesn’t reach this club’s age limit. Tonight he didn’t have to pretend to be of age since they have entered through the back door. Fran created an illusion which allowed them to pass the guard and after that Bel took the lead.

That’s what is amiss here, the fact that Bel is leading. Thus far the prince has thrust Fran in front to the danger zone. Has Bel suddenly grown a conscience or what is this abrupt gallantry?

Perhaps the blond is just craving a good kill. After the Byakuran episode a proper opportunity to use his knife skills hasn’t presented itself. Fran hands over the dirty job with pleasure. He has never felt a particular passion for taking a human life, it’s just something that comes with the package he calls his job. He follows behind his tutor, as silently as he can. Bel doesn’t make a sound, even though a complete silence is unnecessary. The small noises get drowned in the constant thumping of the bass carried from the upper floors. 

The place is a hole. The basement floor rooms, such as the one they are passing right now, are used to provide services not mentioned in the introduction of the club but which the regular customers are aware of. The night is still so young the couches and cushions lie untouched but the stains on them reveal the usage history. Fran is repulsed and avoids touching any surface.

Bel stops at the next door, presses his ear against it, listening. A smile slowly spreads on his face and he nods to himself before beckoning Fran to come closer. Fran has been following just behind the blond, but he takes yet another step, because when at duty, Bel is the one with the knowledge of procedures. The tutor leans close to him, so close his warm breath grazes Fran’s face. “When I open the door, create an illusion for it to stay closed and the room to appear normal.”

”Tuteur Bel, I have no idea what the room looks like. My illusion might go amiss.”

Bel’s expression tightens. “What the fuck do you get paid for? Just do as I tell you. It probably looks exactly like this one.”

Fran glimpses behind, taking in the door leading to the corridor and the dirty walls framing it. “I’ll try, tuteur.”

“And dissolve us from the picture.”

“That goes without saying.”

Immensely careful, Bel turns the handle. The numbing rumble of the bass drowns the creak, and Fran concentrates in picturing the handle unmoved, forms an image of a still door in his mind. Since illusions don’t pick their targets, Bel also sees the door remain closed. The prince must rely on his sense of touch.

Fran sees his tutor pushing through the solid door and proceeds after him so far the first illusion is left behind them. The next one fades them from their target’s eyes. Fran is able to see himself, but not Bel. In the eyes of the prince the view is opposite – Fran has suddenly disappeared from the stage. But the tutor doesn’t need to see him, a sustainable illusion is enough. According to their agreement, Fran maintains the mirage as long as it takes for the prince to get in the vicinity of their customer. Bel is fast, but Ortica possesses a training of a CEDEF officer and they shouldn’t risk it for such a routine assignment.

Ortica, a hefty Southern Italian man, is presently negotiating with a cigar smoking bigwig. The sight is like straight from the Godfather (not that Fran has seen the movies, in his opinion the first one was already inexplicably boring). How much the traitor has already blabbed, they are not sure, but the task is clear. The negotiating partner makes it on their list alongside Ortica. Fran is able to sense the enthusiasm radiating from the prince, as Bel sneaks behind the man who had the nerve to betray the Vongola family. 

Time to drop the illusion.

Fran doesn’t care to watch as Prince the Ripper slaughters the men. He doesn’t turn his head, per se, but lets his eyes wander in the room. There’s an old-fashioned steel safe box, a Persian carpet with holes from hot cigarette ash, a decoratively carved divan… holy shit, that’s one ugly painting! Fran would never hang his wall a picture which looks like a six-year-old had tried to smudge a nude lady with crayons. A revolting, gargling sound gushes from Ortica. The suit manages to cry out once, and then a wet thump signals that one of the prince’s knives has punctured his throat. 

Fran lets Bel have his way. The blond is in his element and the hype usually lasts until the next day. When tuteur is in a good mood, Fran has it easy, too.

And even if the prince flips… well, what can Fran do about it? He didn’t ask to be teamed with a real-life Jason Voorhees. 

The topic is not exactly discussed in the Varia, but it twirls on the background as hidden information. Fran has an intuition, he’s combined conversations he’s heard, added them to his own experiences, assembling the pieces of a puzzle in his mind. About Bel ‘missing some toppings from his pizza’, as Lussuria likes to put it. About how his tutor sometimes abandons himself to madness just by seeing his own blood, so grievously they had to inflate him with sedatives. 

Oh, the freaks he has to work with. As if Master Mukuro was the sanest gentleman in the mafia world. 

Bel completes his job and fortunately to Fran, appears to stand steadily on his feet. A small giggle escapes the prince’s lips as he admires his handwork, but then he collects his knives and absent-mindedly wipes them clean on his victim’s clothes. Even with his sick affinity for blood, the prince is not dumb. He knows how big risk of contagion using the knives causes, and makes sure to not let his victims blood get in touch with his own system. The blond checks the documents lying on the table in case they’d concern the CEDEF or the Vongola, before nodding at Fran. The case is clear. They may go. In fact, they have to go quickly before they will be spotted.

Outside, the air wipes away the stuffy smell of a porn cavern. Fran takes a deep breath, following his tutor along the side streets to the centre. They could drive back home right away, but Bel is walking in the wrong direction. When Fran points it out, he receives a first class exhibition of the prince’s white dentition. 

“Shishi, I don’t feel like going back to be ordered around. Let’s stay this night in Milan and drive back tomorrow.”

Commander Squalo has been on the overdrive the whole week and would probably demand them to write the report on the spot. Fran hasn’t got the urge to sacrifice his sleep either, but a night alone with tuteur Bel in a big city? He’s not sure if he will make it out alive.

“Where are we going?” he dares to ask. He’s been to Milan before but doesn’t exactly know the city.

“To have some fun,” Bel answers and halts to wait for Fran to catch up. “I know a few good clubs near the centre.”

“Um, tuteur, I don’t know if you’ve forgotten but I’m not 18 yet.” His age has not really been brought out in the Varia, but Fran assumes his colleagues suspect him to be underage.

“Hah, nobody cares. What, do they actually ask to see your ID in France?”

Fran has no idea. He hasn’t really tested the night life of his home country. 

”If they don’t let you in, we’ll just go and find another place,” Bel states, an amusement audible in his voice. 

Fran is still unsure, but he really doesn’t have a lot of choices. He hasn’t got a driving license and he would never live it out if he dumped his tuteur in Milan without means of transportation. Of course, he could catch a train back home but he’s not sure which way is the railway station and if there are still trains running this late in the night. And even if he managed to get home, there could be some extra obstacles waiting for him. He might be able to climb to his room through his window without the idiot-commander noticing, but if he happened to get caught he would probably have to deal with the paperwork alone. And meanwhile, Bel would be having a blast in the night of Milan.

“Alright then,” he consents. The prince’s face tears to a wide smile.

Bel leads them to a dark but surprisingly high-class night club. Nobody asks Fran his age or demand to see an ID, though his frog hat gains a couple of extra looks. Bel’s tiara is also drawing attention.

“Having a bachelor party?” the bouncer asks.

“Something of that sort,” Bel responds and saves them from the entrance fee. Though the guy must find them really pathetic since the party appears to only consist of two people.

The space is stuffy, noisy, full of bouncing people, and everything Fran is not too fond of. It looks like he hasn’t missed much while avoiding the club culture. 

“Sit, froggy,” Bel tells him once they’ve found a free table. “I’m going to get us something to drink.”

Tuteur is providing? Fran can’t _not_ think about what kind of poison the blond is going to order him. Although, since his tolerance for alcohol is worse than terrible, it probably doesn’t matter what the glass holds. It will go straight to his head anyway. 

“As long as it’s not tequila,” he mutters, making the blond laugh.

“No tequila, we are off duty.”

Fran sits on a couch placed against the wall and exhales slowly. In a minute he starts to feel like he’s been stared at, and correctly, a dozen pair of eyes have glued on him. And if he knows how to read them, the glances are not flattering.

Goddamn that stupid headgear! Fran yanks the frog off and sets it on the couch. It’s awful enough that they are in a club in their Varia uniforms. Luckily, the place is warm enough to shake off the coat, and that’s exactly what Fran does. Tuteur Bel can stew in his outerwear if he likes. 

The blond returns with two glasses. The other one clearly contains beer and that Bel keeps himself. To Fran he hands a dark drink decorated with ice and a slice of lime.

Fran peeks into his glass. “What is it?”

“Just rum and coke.”

The drink smells like coke. Fran takes a sip. Not too bad. The rum leaves a slight aftertaste on the tongue but nothing he can’t handle. He sips again, rolling the liquid around in his mouth.

”I thought you’d like a chick’s drink since you almost are a chick,” tuteur states.

“And you are drinking beer because you are a true macho man?”

Bel’s face scrunches for a second, but the euphoria from the slaying keeps him in high spirits. “Shut up, brat.” The prince points at the bench next to him. ”Why did you take off your hat?”

“We get ogled anyway.”

Bel settles for the explanation. Because he doesn’t want to attract unnecessary attention – someone might have seen a frog-headed sneak at a rickety strip club just before the owner and another man were found in the basement brutally murdered – or is it because Mammon is back and Fran doesn’t need to wear the uncomfortable appendage anymore? He doesn’t know, nor does he care. He feels like he’s retrieved a part of his own identity.

And the night keeps only getting better.

* * *

”Did you just smell my hair, Bel-tuteur?”

”Why the hell would I smell your hair? Christ, how does your brain work?”

“Better than yours.”

Fran is certain that the tutor sniffed his head while leaning closer just now. His assessment is supported by several factors: A) during the night, Bel has swapped from an opposite chair to sit on the couch, next to Fran, B) Bel has inched so close he almost touches Fran’s side and their arms are bumping into each other and C) Bel just leaned towards him and he felt the airflow. The blond was so close Fran heard him inhale.

There’s only one factor against it. Why the hell, really?

“Not once in my life I have smelled the hair of a plebe, so why would I start now? In fact, I should be holding my breath, to prevent any rural germs from getting into my lungs.”

_Then why are you sitting next to me?_

Fran doesn’t ask. He senses the tension radiating from Bel and reckons to achieve a couple of more physical injuries if he dares to question the prince’s explanation. He feels even more uncertain, because it’s possible that Bel will not stab him, but actually… do something else.

Fran shivers.

“It was a pretty easy job, the one we had,” he says, aiming to change the subject.

“Too easy,” Bel grunts, though the pleasure is still blooming in his posture. “Commander Squalo should assign us to a bit more challenging task. Make me remember why I joined the squad in the first place.”

Fran remarks how Bel says ‘us’ instead of ‘me’, and can’t stop himself from seizing it. He clears his throat. “Is the fake prince starting to think our collaboration makes a little bit sense?”

He receives an arrogant glance. “Bullshit. Mammon would have handled today’s assignment better. In fact, even _Levi_ would have handled it better.”

Oh well, Bel is being himself once again.

* * *

”Tuteur Bel, I don’t think I should be drinking anymore.”

“Probably not, but drink anyway.” The stubborn prince plunks yet another drink on the table. Its colour is transparent yellow and it smells sweet and pungent. Fran eyes the square glass suspiciously.

“What..?”

“The Godfather. A suitable drink for a mafia member.”

Why Bel, who’s only been drinking beer, keeps carrying expensive cocktails to him? And even pays for everything. Fran is perplexed. Are they again in the middle of their little duel? Bel is going to get him drunk and take advantage of Fran’s helplessness?

Nevertheless, Fran takes a sip of his drink and two things swarm into his mind. It tastes bad. It’s a combination of almond-like sweetness and eye-watering bitterness, which tells him it contains a fair amount of percents. He also realises it would taste even worse if he hadn’t already had four other drinks.

* * *

When the clock strikes ’unclear but absolutely late’, Fran is drunk. He’s been tipsy before but not actually drunk, and he’s not very fond of the feeling. The world is moving sluggishly, sentences are crawling onto his otherwise sharp tongue but he is unable voice them. Or actually he is able, but he’s not sure if Bel understands. In fact, Fran himself doesn’t understand.

Okay, so he is not drunk. He is completely, utterly wasted.

“Come on, frog. Let’s go get some sleep,” Bel says, rising on his feet. A pillow disappears underneath his head. Hmh, suppose it was a tad bumpy but warm enough for him to continue his cotton trip.

“Wfcksts? Nggh! Glxblt!”

”Fucking hell, you really can’t hold your liquor, can you?” Bel says, the corners of his mouth tugging. The blond grabs Fran by the arm and hauls him to his feet. “Come on then, my useless sidekick.”

Fran tries to object, tell the blond, he’s not useless, but he can’t remember how to speak Italian. He can’t even remember how to speak _French_! And what does Bel mean, ‘can’t hold his liquor’? He has downed more booze in a few hours than Xanxus on a bad day.

Something heavy hits his head, and fumbling with his blurred touch, he realises Bel has seated the frog hat back on his head. He doesn’t care that much, to tell the truth. Anyway, he has to take it with him and it’s easier to carry on his head than under his arm.

Walking straight – or walking altogether – doesn’t seem to be working, but the tutor is beside him and wraps Fran’s arm behind his neck, in the same way he was carrying Hayato Gokudera after the brat got hurt in the Byakuran encounter. Fran hopes the blond is not thinking of slamming him onto the ground since his muscles hardly contain any control to catch his weight.

They stroll out of the scruffy space. As the night air blows onto his face, for a second or two, Fran’s thought roll more smoothly. But then the last drink shoots to his head and clouds his surroundings. He catches random perceptions here and there, a chilly draught, the hard pavement, tuteur Bel’s warm side and trademarked laugh, as the blond monitors his staggering, amused, but nothing manages to scratch deeper than the surface. He just wants to slump onto a bed and close his eyes.

Fran’s recollection of memories ends with the breeze whizzing on the nightly streets of Milan.

 

A/N: ”Glxblt”. Hortense McDuck. :B


	6. Act V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Quite explicit description of vomiting ahead!

**Act V - Do you have any control over how creepy you allow yourself to get?**

 

_‘I can’t stand his type.’_

_He can’t stand my type… whatever that’s supposed to mean. The royal?_

Bel lies on his back on the less luxurious sheets of the hotel room. It appears that finding an appropriate accommodation in Milan with the budget Squalo defined for the assignment is impossible, and Bel is not willing to waste his own assets. Though he has to admit he didn’t really invest in finding the sleeping quarters. It’s three o’clock in the middle of the night and he got tired dragging around his assistant turned into a dead weight.

Alcohol scours his brain, forces his thoughts to run in circle. Or maybe it’s not so much the alcohol than the French froggy snoozing next to him. 

The receptionist asked how many rooms they’d like to have. Bel answered one. Well, how many beds? One. A double bed. Questions ended there but the receptionist’s face spoke louder than words. Bel tossed the guy one of his best ‘I know what you are thinking but I have a jacket full of lethal knives and you don’t, so what do you say now, peasant?’ glances, and the treatment turned into royal. Which is of course more than accurate.

Fran is hardly going to whine about their sleeping arrangements. Come the morning, he will be experiencing such a hangover that waking up next to a wild boar would seem more desirable. The kid was mumbling something when Bel dumped him on the bed and peeled off his boots and hat. Not for Fran to be more comfortable, Bel just doesn’t want to get kicked or hammered with the enormous headwear. On a second thought, he also rolled the boy out of his coat.

Fran will hardly complain, but Bel is starting to think whether huddling in the same bed was such a brilliant idea. Because he sure as hell won’t sleep a wink.

Sleeping Fran is extremely unattractive. He is sprawled in an unconceivable position, leg twisted in every which way, like a stuffed animal hurled into a corner. A trail of drool is hanging from the slightly opened mouth and the air wheezes annoyingly as it squeezes through the stuffy nose. Why would Bel want to touch such a caricature of a human being? And he doesn’t, really, his fingers just try to sneak to the other side of the bed. He’s tingling and burning like a sweet craving child whose mom slams a bag of chocolate in front of him and tells him not to touch. Self-control, what is that?

He could touch. He’s never been the exemplary child of the kindergarten. Nobody would ever know. Fran is knocked out and not one of the Varia’s nosey colleagues will burst into the room (Bel swears half of the squad members have a voyeurism fetish and the others just succeed in being in the wrong place at the wrong time). Bel could most likely do more than touch without Fran noticing.

He has no time to make a decision. The young illusionist is lying nearer than he realises, and his fingers collide with the boy’s side and the shirt Fran wears under his uniform coat. The fabric is at the same time surprisingly thick and awkwardly thin. The breath stops in Bel’s lips, his throat constricting. He budges his hand just a tiniest bit, just to feel the shirt press against the skin, the warmth spreading into his fingertips as Fran’s next inhalation pushes them back. Bel sighs, withdrawing his hand.

It’s not the moral that’s stopping him from fumbling. Hell, the moral is probably laughing its ass off at his hesitation, because it has nothing to do with him. But does it avail to touch, if no reaction comes out of it? As well he could be soloing over nondescript online porn – or worse: with an inflatable bed mate.

The prince refuses such actions. The prince doesn’t need some fuzzy quality adult entertainment or a balloon faintly resembling a human, because he gets the real stuff when he feels like it (and gets out of the house). Now he is wondering why he didn’t pick up a chick for the night. When was the last time he’s warmed his bed with other things than sheets? It’s been forever. But _why_?

Bel sighs, turning his back on the sleeping boy.

* * *

Fran has a hangover of the apocalypse. He awakes to a lightning incising his head, and his stomach rotating like a washing machine, and the feeling he’s been sucked dry (of any possible fluids, literally). The daylight scorches his eyes and brain, and grunting in pain, he pulls the blanket over his face. The fabric smells weird, scruffy and stale, like someone had smoked while wrapped in it.

Where the fuck is he?

Something jabs his shoulder. “Get up, frog. We are going back now.”

“Eh?”

Mental images slowly catch up with him. Ortica, the night of Milan, a club, too many drinks. Somehow, he has managed to end up sleeping in a bed, though he doesn’t remember leaving the club.

“Commander Squalo just called and raged for ten minutes about us ditching the work. If we are not back at the headquarters by noon, we will have to deal with everyone else’s paperwork for the next week. Which equals that you are doing it, since the prince has better things to occupy his time than scribbling other people’s reports.”

Reluctantly, Fran sticks his nose to the outside air and zooms into a striped-shirted figure standing next to the bed. The tutor is fully dressed and doesn’t seem to be suffering the alcohol aftermath at all. As his eyes adjust to the brightness, Fran lets them roam around the small room which he would never consider to meet tuteur Bel’s standards. It’s less than ten square meters, the tapestry was glued onto the walls probably on the last century, the furniture is second-hand quality, and furthermore, there’s only one bed.

Where did tuteur sleep?

He voices his question.

Bel snorts. ”I booked myself my own room, naturally. A bit more upscale than this. Unfortunately, the royal is not used to the same kind of lodging as you proletarians.”

Fran doesn’t really think a hotel as seedy as this could provide quality rooms but by no means he’s in a shape for a confrontation. The headache is trying to crush his awareness, his mouth is dryer than a cracker and he suddenly realises he’s in for an appointment with the toilet. In fact, at the second the thought crosses his mind, his stomach flip-flops, making him bolt up and ignore the needles impacting his brain. Bel yields, pointing helpfully towards the bathroom, and Fran collides with the door frame rushing through the cramped space, a hand slapped against his mouth. He barely manages to lift the lid before his cardia gives in and a yellowish liquid splatters from his throat.

“You should take the others into consideration at least to close the door for your repugnant functions,” Bel’s voice carries from behind him and the door is slammed shut. The bang resonates into his throbbing skull and makes him puke again. His stomach swivels completely, squeezing its content into the bowl with such a force, Fran fears his intestines are going to follow suit.

After barfing like a cocaine addict on withdrawal, he slumps against the cold tiles, trying to catch his breath and wiping his eyes, which are uncontrollably leaking tears onto his cheeks. His nose is stinging, part of the stomach contents ejected through it, and he snatches some toilet paper from the holder, blowing into it long and hard. The world reeks like puke, gall, rum, and whisky. Fran fumbles the water tank until he finds the lever and erases the results of his painful episode. Oddly enough, he doesn’t feel like peeing, even though he’s hoovered fluids like a camel. All the spare drops are probably infused to mend his body’s fluid balance. He manages to push himself up to his feet, and opens the tap, sticking his face underneath it and letting the cold water cascade down his aching forehead. 

And then his belly announces the joy is not over yet and the whole ordeal starts anew.

* * 

Around eleven o’clock Fran finally thinks he’s able to control his rebelling stomach for them to start their way back home. Tuteur Bel has retrieved the car and parked it in front of the hotel since Fran has no chance of walking further than the lobby. The receptionist regards his greenish appearance in a way that the guy assumes cleaners are going to find a couple of interesting surprises in the room, and Fran feels like pointing out that he knows how to throw up into the toilet. He just doesn’t want to talk any more than necessary because every mouth opening creates a risk of blurting out something else besides words.

Bel marches back to the hotel and despite the long-haired idiot-commander’s threat seems to be in an excellent mood. The blond is whistling as he grabs Fran by the arm and walks him out like he was a blind old man. Good for him, to feast on Fran’s suffering. Though Fran can’t deny he wouldn’t be at least a bit gloating if their condition was reversed.

After they have sat down on the black Lexus, his tutor undertakes an unprecedented helpfulness, fishing a pair of mirror sunglasses from the glove compartment and prodding them into Fran’s lap. The glasses soften the sun scorching on all its might and the headache settles a bit. It’s an hour and a half ride to the headquarters, but Bel is able to squeeze it into an hour and fifteen, if he makes it quickly to the highway. 

“Fortunately, Squalo said around noon and not exactly at twelve”, the blond muses, as he starts up the engine and steers the Lexus on the street amongst other traffic. “It’s entirely your fault, though, after lounging in the bathroom for at least half an hour.”

_Which one of us wanted to stay in Milan for the night? Which one kept carrying the drinks to the table?_

Fran is too tired to argue. He just wants to either fall asleep or die. Maybe he could ask tuteur to punch him unconscious. Although he’s heard it might cause more headaches and nausea, so technically knocking him out would only postpone the inevitable. His dehydrated body is screaming for water. Earlier he was afraid to drink anything, thinking his stomach would only spew it out right away.

“Tuteur, I need water.”

“Not going to happen. We don’t have time to stop.” Lexus dives to the ramp and to the bypass, the meter rapidly climbing to 140 kilometres per hour. The inner lane is fairly empty and if nothing unexpected happens – meaning neither Sunday drivers nor police intervene – they might actually make it by twelve.

“But Tuteur, I’ll _perish_.”

“Stop your snivelling, bug.” Bel honks at a Mercedes in front of them and cuts dangerously close to its silvery side. The prince sways his finger as they scorch past the old sedan and a middle-aged man sitting behind the wheel. The guy is not stupid enough to chase them but merely accepts his role and is soon left far behind. Fran would feel nervous if he hadn’t travelled before aboard with both his tutor and Xanxus. Actually, Squalo is the only member of the Varia to drive even roughly according to regulations and only 15 km/h over the speed limit. Lussuria might also be a safe choice but nobody lets him on the driver’s seat. 

Fran is not nervous but the hasty turns combined with the scenery running by are playing tricks with his suffering digestion. He tries to concentrate looking straight ahead and for a while it seems to be working but then a strange bubbling reminds him that yesterday he drank an X amount of strong drinks and it’s been already twenty minutes since his last emptying.

“Tuteur Bel,” he begins and stops to swallow the saliva accumulating in his mouth. “I need to throw up.”

Bel squints at him. “No, you don’t. Hold it in.”

“I ca–“ An unhealthy gurgle cuts his words, and Fran slams hands against his mouth. He manages to force the burning liquid back, but it’s lurking in his throat, waiting for his willpower to break.

“You are not going to puke in a factory fresh Lexus!”

“Pull over then.”

“How the fuck do I pull over on a highway?”

“The side of the road is right there.” Fran nods at the shoulder. It’s legitimate to stop on the side of the highway in an emergency and this definitely is one. His throat utters an interesting glug. “Whoops, it’s coming.”

”You goddamn olm! You will explain our delay to Squalo!” Bel snaps the blinker to the right, moves to the outer lane, and checks the rear-view mirror until he’s able to loosen the gas without a danger of some dreamer crashing into their ass. The second the blond has the car stopped, Fran kicks the door open and hauls himself out.

“I really feel like leaving you here. You could hitch your way back,” Bel growls, while Fran vomits on the shoulder of the road and the cars whish by, as mocking their pinch.

Fran wishes he could retaliate because the tutor is just being positively unfair but his mouth is occupied with gal and last drops of whiskey. He gags long enough for black spots to obscure his vision and his stomach to turn into a wrinkled bag, and he suspects several capillary blood vessels have broken on his face, making him look like a chicken pox patient. Bel is leaning on the car in the bright yet chilly November sunshine, glowing frustration. Fran refuses to straighten up as long as there is a smallest chance for the puking to start again.

Eventually, he is sure it’s over. He feels exhausted to the point he could lie down on the shoulder and hope for someone or something, probably a garbage truck, to come and collect him. He straightens his back slowly, but his tortured abs still wail in their agony, and totters back to the car.

“Do you have any control over how disgusting you allow yourself to get?” Bel demands, as Fran wipes his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his Varia uniform. 

“My apologies, heartless tuteur, but I don’t have any handkerchiefs on me.”

“You didn’t even ask for them. There’s a roll of kitchen paper on the parcel shelf.”

“Well, it’s too late now.”

“The whole car is going to smell like vomit!”

“I’ll just take off my coat.” Fran shakes the top of his uniform off his shoulders and rolls it into a tight ball, leaving the spit-stained parts as the innermost. He slumps back on the shotgun seat and tucks the cloth ball on the floor between his feet. “We may continue.”

Bel says nothing while returning behind the wheel and restarting the car. Lexus veers back to the road and smoothly gets into the rhythm with traffic but they have lost at least fifteen minutes. Bel tries to catch up and accelerates to 150, passing other cars like the angry boss was hot on their trail.

For the next ten kilometres, only a car radio makes its voice heard. Bel focuses on driving and Fran keeping his whimsical belly in line. He’s already feeling a bit more decent, his stomach seems to have settled. If only he could get an aspirin and a bottle of San Pellegrino, the day would brighten inside the car, too. He even has enough strength to seize an opportunity and give his tutor some feedback of his loutish behaviour, as the radio starts playing the most famous track of Notre-Dame de Paris musical: _Belle_ – pronounced almost alike with the prince’s nickname.

“Hey, Tuteur, listen! They are singing about you.” Fran reaches to turn the volume up. “Okay, maybe in a bit ironic sense.”

*

Bel grinds his teeth, but holds his tongue – for now. He’s heard the musical but doesn’t recall the words well enough to resolve Fran’s punishment.

 _“’Is it the devil that has incarnated in her? She carries the original sin on her’,”_ Fran quotes.

But the next line... _’Doesn’t the desire turn me into a criminal?’_ Fran tactically leaves it untranslated, but Bel understands French. Besides, he’s heard the Italian version and the lyrics more or less match.

He decides to settle for a verbal sanction. “Congratulations, you just promoted yourself from a frog to a stinking sewer rat.”

“That’s a remarkable improvement. Rats actually place in the more intelligent end of the animal kingdom.”

“Intelligence doesn’t change the fact that they are ugly, filthy, and transmit diseases,” Bel remarks and pays his attention back to the song in which Phoebus’ part has begun. _“’My love, let me be unfaithful before I carry her to the altar. Who is the man who diverts his gaze from her in spite of turned into a statue of salt?’_ Still singing about me, are they?”

To his satisfaction, Bel notes that Fran appears a bit uneasy, shifting his weight and tweaking the corners of his mouth. Maybe the frog is just feeling sick again or…

“What languages do you speak, Tuteur Bel?” the illusionist asks, changing the subject. “Since you clearly understand French.”

One of the Varia’s official rules (don’t even get started on the unofficial) states that a member candidate must speak a minimum of seven languages. How Levi passed the entrance exams is a mystery the other members can’t stop wondering. Even snoring and Gorilla included, the Thunder Guardians can barely express himself in four languages. Not to mention Xanxus only masters Italian, Japanese, and English (and Norwegian after a couple of tequila bottles), but the adopted son of Vongola IX has other qualities to compensate the lack of languages. 

“Why do you ask? What languages _you_ speak?”

“I’ll tell if you tell,” Fran bargains.

“I can tell you some of them.”

“But not your mother tongue?”

“Exactly.”

“Because that would also reveal your home country?”

“Yes.”

“Deal. Okay, besides French and Italian I speak Spanish, Japanese, and English, and I also have a fair knowledge of Basque, Breton, and Catalan.”

“So utterly useless languages?”

Fran shrugs. ”The first four are not useless.”

“And the rest are as useful as a snowball in a nuclear war.”

“I doubt the language of your Lilliput country would be much of use to the Varia, especially, since you can’t speak it without giving yourself away.”

“Watch your tongue, munchkin!”

“Why? It’s the truth, isn’t it?” Something like a smile flickers on Fran’s face – which is unheard-of since Fran never smiles. The brat has only two kinds of expressions: blank and even blanker. “Well, are you going to tell?”

“Hmm, the prince knows Italian, Japanese, English, French, Spanish, Latin…”

“Oh yeah, I know Latin, too.”

“Don’t interrupt me! Those aside, I speak Russian, Belarusian, Ukrainian…”

“Hey, Tuteur, are you just listing the languages that pop into your head?”

“..German and my native language.”

“What about the rest?”

“What do you mean the rest?”

“The other Varians, what languages do they speak?”

Bel huffs. “Why don’t you just ask them?”

“I can imagine the long-haired moron-commander would be good in German, since he already possesses the required manner of speaking.”

“Shishi, Squalo can actually speak German. After all, he’s from the north.”

Bel has heard – and seen, because Squalo’s delivery is always both extremely auditive and visual – the commander speak or more likely shout German and he must admit that Fran hits the nail right on the head. Of that show not much more remains to be said except that if Rammstein ever need a new vocalist, they should start their quest at the Varia headquarters.

The rest of their journey balances between amicable chatting, sharp picking, and an open war, but it can be referred as a small victory that Fran is still in one piece as they curve to the front yard of headquarters twenty minutes on the worse side of the noon. Immediately after stepping through the front door, they get an excellent presentation about the force of Squalo’s vocal cords – although only in Italian – because the commander has been bursting with boredom, ramping back and forth the stony hallways, and that brain-damaged half-monkey of the Cavallone has tried to pay them a really unwanted visit, but not to worry, Squalo told the little nuisance off, but everyone else has been too obedient so he couldn’t even holler at them, and as an icing on the cake, Xanxus has thrown a fucking speaker at his right-hand man and Squalo’s head is hurting, and _VOIIIII, WHERE THE HELL HAVE BEL AND FRAN BEEN SLACKING THE WHOLE MORNING?!!!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belle – because I just couldn’t resist. ;) The lyrics are horrible, I know. They really gave me a hard time since I had to first translate from French to Finnish and then to English. I absolutely needed the French version here.
> 
> No offence to German speakers, I love German myself! And no offence to rats or rat owners. I’m really fond of rats, too. :D


	7. Act VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter the Varians are playing a Finnish-originated game called Alias. If you are not familiar with it you can check the Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alias_%28board_game%29) but it’s basically about explaining words from the cards and trying to make your partner figure them out. There’s a time limit, measured with an hourglass. After the sand has run out, other players can try to guess the word, too.

**Act VI – Your DNA must cry itself to sleep at night**

 

Even in the Varia there are sometimes moments when the work is pushed aside and the members feel a need to spend time together otherwise than fighting, dining or strategizing. In mafia one doesn’t really work by following the calendar but once in a while their free times match. 

And sometimes someone (ergo Lussuria) fetches a pile of party games from his closet’s top shelf and coaxes (ergo forces) the others to play with him. Besides the cards, the Varia living room has seen a variety of such games as Monopoly, Cluedo, Carcassonne, and Trivial Pursuit. And naturally the good old word explanation game which is also tonight providing entertainment to its players – or getting on their nerves, just another way to put it.

Because in the Varia playing party games equals fighting.

On the first round everyone gets to choose their partner but in the beginning of the re-run, they are raffled, since it’s kind of unfair that Bel and Mammon always win.

“Ushishishi.”

“A Freemason?” the Arcobaleno tries.

“Correct. Okay, now, this is a fairytale.”

“Goldilocks.”

“Correct.”

Fran, due to his short employment in the Varia, has not had a chance to participate in the party games before and now he’s staring at the show arranged by his tutor and the more experienced illusionist, astonished. Nobody else seems surprised, there’s only a heavy frustration hovering over the table. Squalo is tapping his fingers on the wooden surface, Levi keeps snorting. Fran is beginning to suspect that Mammon possesses some sort of abilities of telepathy, since the illusionist basically knows the word at the very second Bel glances at it.

He and Lussuria are not doing so smoothly, but still immensely better than Squalo and Levi. Needless to say, the Varia’s second-in-command and the Thunder Guardian have ended up as a team, because nobody cares to have them as a partner. Levi because he knows nothing, and Squalo because he threatens continuously to slice his team mate and thinks the solution to the partner’s ignorance is just to shout a little louder.

Very soon it turns out that the two players would easily make a home video of a decade.

Squalo turns the card, staring at it. “Alright, it has holes in it.”

“A woman?” Levi tries.

“No! You can eat it!”

“Woman?”

“Imbecile! You eat women?”

“Well…”

“Don’t answer that! It’s yellow, made of milk, and it stinks.”

“Erm…”

The others are fussing as they wait the hourglass’ sand to run out, because everyone apart from Levi knows the answer.

“VOIIII! A yellow, smelly food with holes in it! Parmesan!”

Finally it clicks. ”Cheese.”

Squalo leans forwards, his grey eyes burning with anticipation. “What kind of cheese?”

“Ricotta?”

“NOOO! It has holes in it. It’s Swiss!”

“Time!” Bel exclaims. ”Emmental cheese!”

”Fuck you!” Squalo throws the card at the prince. “Let’s swap partners.”

“Soon, Squ honey, soon,” Lussuria chuckles as he picks up a bundle of cards. “Are you ready, Fran? Somebody turn that hourglass, please. Hmm, right, okay... this can be eaten as well.”

Fran is about to blurt ’penis’ but he restrains himself. “Meat? Fish?”

”No, it’s a mollusc.”

“Shishi, that would be Fran himself.”

”Octopus?”

”Correct, Fran dear! Then... ah, this is awesome! What Mammon is?”

“Eh, a baby? Androgyne? Hermaphrodite?” 

”Bel, permission to strangle your student?” the Arcobaleno mumbles inside her hood.

The prince answers with the biggest smile seen on his lips for a long time. “Permission granted.”

“No, don’t lynch my partner yet!” Lussuria cries out. “What Reborn, Verde, and others are?”

“Rainbows.”

“Why didn’t you just ask the symbol of fags?” Squalo grunts across the table.

Despite their small hiccups, Fran and Lussuria manage to collect an honourable prey of six correct answers and the turn rolls over to Mammon and Bel who immediately scrape together ten cards. Naturally the duo wins the game, and for Squalo’s relief they get to raffle new pairs.

Fran wonders what crooked force of nature mixes their name tickets so that he ends up with his tuteur. Squalo is content to team with Mammon and Lussuria’s nerves stretch better to customize questions into a form that’s more suitable for Levi’s brain. When the hourglass is once again turned, it’s Fran’s turn to riddle Bel, and he feels blond’s invisible eyes prickling his skin. Like the other Varians, Bel is extremely competitive and Fran will definitely hear about it if they lose. He flips the first card and stares at it, dumbfounded. How on earth he’s going to explain this? _Aspartylglycosaminuria_. He hasn’t even got a clue what the hell it means. Perhaps it has something to do with aspartame. Or glucosamine. He casts the card aside and picks another. _Eellogofusciouhipoppokunurious_. Sorry, what? And the next one. _Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis._

Bel is starting to wriggle. “What are you dawdling? Ask me!”

“Believe me, Tuteur. Nobody can explain those.” On the fourth card he finds _Bat Face Cuphea_ which he is able to identify as a plant but explaining it will be a different matter. Bel might be a genius, but… Why in the world have developers included such monsters in their game?

“Alright, it’s a plant.”

“A flower? A tree?”

”I suppose it’s a flower. Might be red.”

“Rose? Tulip? Fuck it, I don’t know flowers!”

“Erm, what are those animals that can create ultrasound?”

“Whales?”

“No, the other ones.”

“Bats?”

“Yeah, those. And then… what’s the front of your head called?”

“Face?”

“Yes. Then a word for a small bowl or mug.”

“What the fuck?”

Fran starts to get frustrated as well even though he keeps it to himself. “It’s concave-shaped. You can drink coffee from it.”

“Cup?”

“Yes, but now you kind of need to–“

“Time!” Squalo shouts. But the guesses don’t start flowing. Fran stares at Bel and tries by his sheer will to make him blurt the correct word. Bel stares back and even though Fran can’t see it, he knows tutor’s brows have scrunched behind the blond mop of hair. But it definitely is not his fault that this ‘party game suitable for the whole family’ includes words which require a remarkable special expertise. 

“Show me the cards, you fly-brain!” The prince snatches the abandoned tags, glimpses them and slams them back on the table. “How couldn’t you ask these? ‘Printer’, ‘dictionary’, ‘chlorophyll’. I’m aware of your intelligence development being on the level of an angleworm but a three-week-old foetus could have explained them!”

Fran cranes over to take a look. “They didn’t look like that a minute ago.”

“Oh, the words just suddenly changed?”

“This one here said something about pneumonia or lungs.”

“Or maybe you just can’t rea–“ Bel’s head snaps to the right where the hooded Arcobaleno is crouched, silent and satisfied. “Mammon? You’ve something to do with this?”

“No,” the illusionist answers so implausibly not even Levi buys it.

”Goddamn Hocus Pocus crazy ass trickster… We are keeping these cards, every one of them!” Bel scrapes the cards to his side. “One more time and you’ll be disqualified.”

“Hey, I had nothing to do with it!” Squalo protests.

“Children, peace, peace! We are supposed to have fun here,” Lussuria tries to calm them down.

“Unbelievably fun when certain individuals cheat like the fucking Union MEP’s.”

“The fake prince is just pissed since he’s no longer in the trickster team,” Fran says, recoiling when a knife thuds onto the table, barely avoiding his fingers. “Oo-kay, whose turn is it?”

The game reaches its end with minor injuries, and perhaps a bit surprisingly, Fran and Bel spurt to the first place after Mammon stops interfering with their explanations, though the Arcobaleno and Squalo follow just two steps behind. Levi and Lussuria remain the last ones with their score that, though pathetic, has remarkably enhanced from the previous round.

“Voiii, this game sucks!” the commander bursts, smashing his fist onto the table. The saying ‘Winning isn’t everything’ has never been part of Squalo Superbi’s vocabulary. “I can’t believe I waste my time on this kind of crap!”

“Not much you can do about it, Squ, you’re on sick leave,” Lussuria sweetly reminds. “But what do you say, shall we switch to Cluedo?”

“That game is for babies!”

“Last time you played it quite enthusiastically, as far as I remember.”

“I did not! And if I seemed enthusiastic it was just because I had just returned from a successful assignment!”

* * *

A little bit after midnight the game boards and cards are packed, and the Varians start sauntering to their bedrooms. Mammon has left the party already two hours earlier because, despite her mature mind, she has to live in a body of an infant that requires a sufficient amount of sleep. The others had a couple of successful rounds of Cluedo and Blackjack after that. In this household the cards get turned up only when Mammon is not present since the mercenary illusionist would hoax her colleagues clean in a matter of minutes.

Yawning widely, Fran trudges to his door and steps into his room. He turns the key in the lock after him, because lately tuteur Bel has been behaving in an oddly intruding manner and Squalo, in his endless burst of energy, might come and drag him out of his bed at the wintrier side of seven. There are still three days left of the commander’s sick leave; after that he will be able to attach his prosthesis and resume his training. The other Varians look forward to that day eagerly like kids to a summer holiday.

Fran pops quickly in the shower, brushes his teeth and is about to dive between the sheets, when he hears a subdued ping and rustling from the door. He halts to listen. It sounds like someone was rubbing themselves against the wooden surface.

_Tuteur?_

The thought crops up to his mind probably just because during the last few weeks the prince has been caught in such questionable actions. If Bel can encroach to the bathroom to watch Fran take a piss, and sniff his hair in a bar (because Fran is _sure_ , it happened) why couldn’t the blond also molest his door? He doesn’t move a muscle; he’s just staying put, listening. If he went at the door, would he be able to distinguish breathing from the other side? 

For a whole minute, nothing happens, nobody leaves the door, and Fran starts to get frustrated. He won’t be able to sleep knowing that someone, most probably his headcase of a tutor, is puffing at his doorstep. But what to do now? Should he call the commander and tell him to come and fetch the fake prince from unnecessarily occupying the hallway? Escape through the window and ambush the prince himself? Create an illusion that chases the nuisance away?

Fran has no time to formulate his staggering plan because suddenly a clearer, sharper sound breaks through the silence. A knock.

He huffs, not exactly knowing why. It’s not tuteur after all. Tuteur doesn’t knock. Either he squeezes himself inside without permission or demands Fran to open up, seasoned with various insults. But who is it then? Lussuria? But why would he linger on the doorstep for god knows how long before knocking?

Well, there’s only one way to find out. Fran walks at the door, unlocking and opening it. Dismay hits him square on the head when it reveals an overly long fringe, a tiara nesting among blond wisps, and a red and black striped shirt. He quickly collects himself, though, holding his face muscles to keep the blankness.

“Idiot-tuteur, why are you loitering at my door? Did you remember another term of abuse that couldn’t wait until the morning?”

Bel is not grinning. Not even smiling. There are times Fran has seen him as serious as this, but it definitely does not happen often. When he really starts to think about it, those times are emphasized in the last weeks. Is something troubling the prince? Fran is not necessarily the best person to listen to other people’s worries, and in Bel’s case that would require a degree of a specialised psychiatrist. The problem would probably concern his violent tendencies. ‘I can’t get satisfaction from cutting people anymore, oh Doctor, what should I do?’

Ignoring Fran, Bel shoves himself in and yanks the door shut. The bang echoes in the empty hallway and it’s followed by a click as tuteur turns the key. This time Fran is hoping for real that he could see Bel’s eyes. Seriousness is emitting from the blond, but Fran fails to identify its kind. Is Bel merely concerned or angry? Fran doesn’t remember to have done anything that night that would earn him his tutor’s wrath, they even won the word game, but Bel’s train of thought does not always run on the logical rail.

“Wh–?” Fran’s sentence dies – or more accurately is cut short. Not by knife, not by kick, not by punch, not even by a rude command.

He starts again, tries to ask just what the hell he owes the honour to but it’s a bit hard to speak if something is pressed against your lips. Like for instance, other lips.

If Bel is not trying to perform CPR on him that means…

..Bel is kissing him!

His first reaction is to retract. Usually, when tuteur comes closer than half a meter, it equals pain and Fran’s body has got used to react without a conscious order. He tries to back off, but Bel grabs his shoulders, stopping him from escaping and as Fran pulls his head back, dumbstruck, the stubborn lips follow, and oh dear lord above, start to move against his.

_Hey! Hey! HEY! Just what the fuck is going on here? Someone come and help me! Lussuria? Long-haired idiot-commander? Boss? Master Mukuro?!_

Nobody comes because Fran is only screaming inside his head. The immediate escape reaction is followed by flaccidness and it really is a mystery how he manages to keep his balance as his muscles turn liquid. Then his senses start slowly, almost secretly, to register what is actually happening to him, how the hand gripping his shoulder sneaks up and behind his neck, and how something wet and soft slopes past his lips left open by surprise.

Anyone who has seen Fran wouldn’t think of calling him a bubbling, extroverted character. No, there are statues in the museums of Italy that are livelier than the Varia’s young illusionist. Fran has taken the indifference to a completely new level, made it into a type of art. 

But the truth is, beneath all that blankness and monotony and passivity Fran is just a seventeen-year-old male, barely made it through his teens, and the protuberance in his throat, the hair sprouting in various parts of his body, and the every-morning-tenting of his groin indicate that his hormones are in fact functioning in a very normal way. And as the hot breath mixes with his, an agile tongue plunges in to explore the insides of his mouth and the fingertips lightly caress his neck, his body _reacts_. 

Although Fran’s conclusion of the whole episode is that his body would also have reacted to kissing with – _brrr_ – Levi. Because that’s how a young person’s body works; it sucks all the sexual trifles from its environment, stuffs them into a pot and heats up long enough for the whole concoction to boil over. Like the existence had no other meaning.

The characteristic scent of his tutor entwines him. Until this day he hasn’t really analysed it, for him it has only signalled danger, pressure, torture or something in between. He has remarked that Bel smells different from the others, milder. Is it due to his northern inheritance? A light fragrance of a shower gel and then something Fran can’t name even in his mother tongue but if he had to describe it, he would say it smells like the air after a thunder storm. When an electric cracking, a downpour, and a tearing wind have departed, what is it that remains? Something cool, clear and silvery blue, a bit like the prince’s eyes.

At that point Bel has already registered that Fran is not resisting. Maybe he is not participating per se, but he’s not pushing tuteur away either, and that’s enough for Bel, although he attacked the illusionist with such a determination that he didn’t give a flying fuck of Fran’s answer. The prince wants and the things the prince wants the prince also gets. Suddenly Fran feels like – maybe it has something to do with the hot waves flushing through his body and the tingling in his nether regions – that he should do something besides just standing, and even though he’d like to ask his tutor if Bel is confusing him with someone else, he concludes that questions can wait.

Because to be brutally honest… this kissing thing really isn’t that stupid of a way to spend your time.

So yeah, it’s quite wet and it makes a silly sound and he doesn’t even want to imagine what kind of bugs he’s sharing with his insane tutor, but at the same time something in his body tells him that this is exactly what he should be doing the rest of his life, uninterrupted. The way tuteur’s lips are brushing against his, taking his lower lip between them, sucking it, and how the blond’s tongue is teasing his. How his fingers are travelling along his scalp and the other hand is… _wait a minute_ , it’s in the hem of his thin shirt and now on his skin and Fran jolts instinctively because nobody else besides his guardian and doctors have ever touched his abdomen.

That’s when the reality hits.

What if tuteur is just messing with him? If this is only a next level on their battle of the minds? Fran has always considered Bel straight, and he doesn’t think it’s the blond confusing him with a female anymore. Fran remembers Bel to have said nothing that should indicate that the prince is interested in him… in that way. He’s implied quite the opposite. Why would he suddenly want to kiss a person he regards as attracting, eye-caressing, and intelligent as a sun-fried tomato? 

Yes, Fran remembers the bathroom episode and the hair smelling but still… Bel has so many times voiced how much he despises his subordinate.

The thought gives Fran strength to yank himself free. He sways a step back, and is left to stare at the blond stunned, shoulders heaving and a drop of drool adorning his lower lip.

Bel looks like… he equally doesn’t know which end is up. A heavy breathing is mirroring Fran’s, the lips are glimmering with moisture, red spots are burning the cheeks and the hand lingers in mid-air like the blond is trying to reach out for him.

“Tuteur, what..?” Fran begins, but words are fleeing. He’s mind is occupied with absurdities, fragments of sentences, and language which would earn him a quick show of exit in the St. Peter’s Basilica. But on a second thought, that language suits this situation just fine. “What in the motherfucking cock-sniffing hell?”

Bel doesn’t answer immediately. The hand lifts, wipes the mouth on the sleeve, only to fall on the blond’s side. Bel’s gaze turns to the side, sweeping the walls before returning to Fran. The fringe sways like a curtain before the show, revealing one of the hidden eyes, only for a fraction of second, but Fran manages to catch the feelings surging in it. Manages to see hesitation and determination clashing.

With Bel, it’s not difficult to predict which one wins.

Tuteur sighs, relaxing his shoulders, and takes a step. Fran is about to move, though he’s not sure which way, but the prince walks past him and over to the bed that Fran freed from its cover before this madness began. As Fran starts to claw his vocabulary back, Bel grips the hem of his own shirt, pulling the fabric over his head.

“I’m sleeping here tonight.”

Somehow Fran anticipates that his opinion is not even asked.


	8. Act VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just trying to post the whole fic soon as I've neglected it on this site. :B

**Act VII – I've found that when you want to know the truth about someone that someone is probably the last person you should ask**

 

Fran watches, eyes bulging from bewilderment – and this time he lets it show – how tuteur strips to his briefs, and carelessly climbs to Fran’s bed. To his very own, personal, absolutely private, comfortable bed.

To be precise, the bed is a property of the Varia, but it’s reserved for him for as long as he serves in the elite squad. And if there is a right for a person to hold onto, it is that of sleeping in their own bed!

It crosses his mind that Bel has somehow managed to muddle his own bed and for the sheer malice of it, has come to arrogate the younger colleague’s bed, but he rules out the option immediately. First of all, there’s a fair amount of spare beds in the huge headquarters of the Varia. Secondly, Bel could have invaded Fran’s sleeping quarters without kissing him; he could have simply grabbed Fran by the collar, tossed him into the hallway and locked the door. Thirdly, the prince is supposed to abhor the rural bugs parasitizing in Fran more than Commander Squalo abhors idle Sundays. Even if all the vacant beds were in use or had magically disappeared, Bel’s first choice should have been Mammon, not Fran.

So no, it’s not the lack of beds. But the lack of something else, for sure. 

Bel settles under the duvet as if he was in his own bedroom and glances at Fran. “Why are ogling there like a potheaded owl? Come on! It’s already past one am.”

Fran fails to move. His strained mind begins to browse options.

_If this is a dream, I’d like to wake up now._

_If this is an illusion, I will kick Mammon into the next week, a member of the Varia or not._

_If this is a practical joke courtesy of the fake prince, I’ll tattle to the commander. And Lussuria. And Xanxus. And both Vongola IX and X. And then I will call Master Mukuro and tell him I’m planning to hop on the next plane and fly back to him. There must be some sort of protocol of how gracelessly you are allowed to treat your work mates. Since this clearly meets the criteria of sexual harassment!_

The thought gives him courage to speak his mind. If Bel actually thinks he can just march into Fran’s room, grapple him, and invade his bed, the prince is sadly mistaken. Fran has a patience that at its best stretches to endure a room full of hyperactive, screaming kids but it too is bound to run out at some point.

“Are you seriously in such a need to get laid, Tuteur?” he snaps, sarcasm seeping into his voice, poisoning it. “The Lexus is in the garage or I’m more than willing to call a cab if you don’t care for driving yourself. I’m sure the city has some easy wenches to offer. Levi might know the location of a brothel or tw–“

Bel looks at him like one looks at a spoiled kid throwing a tantrum on a supermarket floor. “Shut your trap, bullfrog.”

The abrupt command leaves Fran blinking in astonishment. His tutor’s rudeness has just exceeded all the tricks thus far including the time the blond lost their mission report, blamed it on Fran and literally pushed him into the office of Xanxus to get crushed.

“Stop your stammering and come here. The sheets are cold and the prince is freezing.”

”But why?”

Bel arranges the blankets, looking discontent. ”I don’t know. Maybe you didn’t warm them up. But that is quite understandable, since you didn’t know I was coming.”

He must have been out of his mind, imagining he could have a reasonable talk with his tutor. Fran turns on his heels, heading for the door. Lussuria probably knows where they keep the spare beds.

“Hey, froggy!” Bel’s voice hits his back, and Fran catches a slight alarm in it. “Where are you going?”

“To find myself a place to sleep.”

“Why? You can sleep here.”

“No, I can’t. A certain fake prince choking in his smugness just seized my bed.” He reaches the door and is about to grab the key when he hears sheets rustling and bare feet slapping against the floor.

“Fran.”

When was the last time Bel actually called him by his real name? The prince only seems to use it when it’s absolutely necessary; when he’s talking with the others and the clarity requires it. Fran halts, waiting, inhaling deeply. Is Bel afraid he’s going to hint someone, Lussuria maybe, about the secret sexual tendencies of Prince the Ripper? The thought is actually quite tempting. 

”Wait,” a soft voice calls behind him. Bel sometimes speaks in a soft tone but only to Mink and Mammon, never to Fran. There’s a special voice reserved exclusively to Fran, the most contemptuous of all voices. Maybe it’s because of the softness, maybe because of all the irrational events, maybe because his 17-year-old body sees any sexual activity as a far more important pursuit than a good night sleep, but Fran drops his intentions to leave, just for now. He lowers his hand and turns around, knowing he’s about to meddle with one of those infamous series of events which in the morning are followed by a question: ‘What the fuck have I done?’ 

Bel is standing in the midway of the room, wearing nothing but black boxer briefs. His clothes are bundled on the floor, the tiara is positioned on the nightstand next to Coelho’s Alchemist. Fran has seen Bel half-dressed before but really not this nude and can’t exactly not look. Can’t avoid seeing the long muscles beneath the pale skin, the crescent-shaped birthmark on the right side of his flat stomach, the body narrowing from the shoulders towards the hips. Bel is not tall or bulky, but he’s agile and dexterous, with a body designed for silent and fast movements. Fran becomes aware of his lips still tingling and burning. His body has not completely recovered from its little trip, the blood is circling a bit too fast, the pulse is throbbing in his neck, temples, and groin, and the images in his head remind him how good the blond’s touch felt, how exciting and right. As wrong as it was.

Fran doesn’t want to look at the bulge in front of the black boxers. And he is not looking. His eyes just kind of… slip. But he retrieves the control quickly, lifting his gaze back to the upper regions of Bel’s body. And when he does it, he sees a genuine fright on the prince’s face.

He really should cherish each of those moments when something manages to break through Bel’s omnipotentness and actually shake him. When was the last time it happened? When they were defending the Varia headquarters and Bel realised that his bat-shit crazy twin brother was still alive. Until that day Fran had thought a more insane person than his tutor didn’t exist. It was interesting to realise he’d been mistaken.

As interesting as it is to notice _he_ is able to evoke the same feeling in the prince.

“What?” he asks, letting the tiredness shine from his voice, to announce it’s absolutely too late for practical jokes. 

Bel steps closer and Fran is pondering whether he should just take off. The door is right behind him. All he needs to do is to step out of it. Of one thing he is fairly certain: tuteur will not start after him half-naked. Not because the prince possessed some sort of moral, but because his reputation of being Fran’s number one hater would be ruined.

But he’s not taking off. He remains where he stands, and Madonna help him, waits for the mad naked prince to walk to him. As Bel’s hand rises to his shoulder, he startles but doesn’t back off, and as the blond leans towards, he merely closes his eyes, because these events are so immensely beyond his reasoning he’s almost curious to see how the night will evolve if he plays along.

Bel’s breath is warm on his face and it makes Fran aware of the room getting a bit too chilly for his thin shirt and pyjama pants. His tutor must be freezing. Fran could take a peek to see if Bel’s skin has already got goose bumps but his lids refuse to open. He can feel Bel lingering only a few centimeters away and then a warm softness lands on his lips and Fran just… allows it to happen.

Again!

Not only is he allowing it to happen, but his sensitised nerves are beginning to send commands to his muscles – _move, act, nestle closer_ – his lips twitch against the others, his tongue snaking through them even though he doesn’t remember granting it permission. As it makes its move, the other meets it the half way, intertwining with it, and Bel’s _Eau de Calm after Storm_ is floating into his nostrils. He is even able to taste it, as well as something darker, like musk, lurking behind it. The sparking in his groin tightens, building up flames, and Fran realises he’s hovering on the verge of displaying his thoughts in front of his pants if they continue their ministrations. And he’s still not sure what Bel is ultimately after.

He manages to pull himself free but the blond’s hand remains on his shoulder and he feels the tension radiating from the fingers. If he tried to escape, Bel would tighten his grip. “Tuteur, I swear… if this one of your stupid jokes, I’ll…”

Bel’s face is so close that his breath heats up Fran’s lips, red spots have returned on his cheeks and the prince seems to be struggling to keep himself under control. “Does it look like I’m joking here?” The voice comes out breathless and strained, like he had his jaw locked.

Fran shrugs. _Can’t always tell it with you, can I?_

Bel lets his hand slide down Fran’s arm and catches his fingers. “Come on, frog. The prince is seriously freezing.”

So Bel actually knows how to be gentle when he feels like it. His touch opens Fran a completely new world, and he doesn’t mean sexual activities, though to tell the truth, in that field his experience is quite minimal, too. He allows the blond to escort him to the bed. Bel is suspicious, and doesn’t let go of his fingers before Fran agrees to settle between the sheets. When the prince follows, Fran gets hit by an agonising feeling of falling into a trap, but he lowers his head onto a pillow, trying to banish the tension gathered in his limbs. 

Okay, he’s lying on the bed, like Bel wanted. Now what?

As it soon turns out, Fran needs to do nothing. The prince seems content to have got Fran next to him and completely takes over the situation. Fran feels his spine turning into an iron bar as underneath the covers the practically naked blond inches to his side and lays his fingers on Fran’s bare forearm, and the warm puff ghosting his cheek tells him Bel has every intention of continuing where they were left off.

Just a minute, did he just grant the blond permission to do something he most definitely is not ready for?

How far is Bel planning to take his experiments?

Fran deems this would be a good – or actually the last – moment to ask, to make tuteur answer, but as soon as he opens his mouth the words get suffocated by a very determined pair of lips. He has already noticed how easy it is to just lose yourself in kissing, let the flow carry, and if he doesn’t collect himself now, he might soon be lying under his tutor in his birthday suit.

He pulls his head back, even tries to turn it but only a hand pressed against the bare chest frees his lips. “Hey, Tuteur…”

Bel exhales, irritated. “What is it now?”

“Don’t you think this is a bit… strange?”

“Well, you do have images of Pokémon in your bedding but I don’t see anything else amiss here.”

“Stop it,” Fran commands, surprising himself with the determination lingering in his voice. “You know what I’m talking about.” And in case the prince is planning to continue playing stupid, he throws a direct question. “Let’s start with what you are doing in my room. What are you doing in my _bed_? What do you want?”

“I kind of thought our little ministrations just now would have given you some clues but apparently everything needs to be explained to you as carefully as to Levi.”

“Why did you kiss me? You realise you did that, right?”

Bel huffs again and sweeps his hair back from his forehead, giving a glimpse of the frosty-blue eyes.

Fran’s resistance starts wavering immediately. 

He had forgotten how good-looking Bel is. Why can’t the blond just have squinty pig eyes or some sort of deformation? Resisting would be so much easier if he resembled a zombie crawled from a bog hole.

“Yes, I kissed you and I would gladly continue doing just that if you’ve had enough of this therapy session.” 

“Why?”

“Why not? It’s not like you’re straight, right?”

Fran can’t decide whether to be extremely offended or just surprised of Bel’s discernment. No, he supposes he’s not completely straight, he’s known it for a while now. He’s probably not entirely gay either, since he’s caught himself checking out girls. Something in between. But Bel’s words sound so assertive that they adopt an almost intrusive tone, as if the prince had just decided that Fran is interested in men and chosen to take advantage of it. 

He eludes the question and slams a more relevant card on the table. “Tuteur… you _hate_ me.”

“So? I still might want to have sex with you.”

Hmm, something or someone here is missing the logic.

“If you merely need to bang someone, I’d again recommend dragging your royal carcass into a brothel. Or maybe Lussuria could provide his services.”

Bel shivers visibly. “That cackling drag queen is the last creature on this planet I’d take to my bed.” The prince quiets, realising what he just blurted from his mouth. “No, scratch that. _Levi_ is. But Lussuria is next to the last.

”Well... Commander Squalo?” Fran offers tentatively. Shouldn’t be a matter of looks. The Varia’s second-in-command could any day quit his job as a sword man and earn his living by strutting down the catwalks in Milan fashion shows and posing for the Men’s Vogue, Homme, and other magazines that value the male beauty. If he doesn’t want to become a lead vocalist of a German metal band, that is.

Bel is staring at him. “Squalo is straighter than Chuck Norris. Besides, what makes you think the prince would settle for whoever crosses his path?”

“Eh… for example the fact that you’ve implied of me being a stinking sewer rat which brain capacity barely manages to control the basic bodily functions.” Fran realises he’s subconsciously sinking into the pillow. Weird to be talking with tuteur when they’re so close their breaths mix and he’s able to see every pore on the pale cheeks.

“Pfft, the prince was just pissed off then.”

“So does that mean I’m not a filthy rodent?”

“No.”

“I’m not?”

“No, it doesn’t mean that!”

“Wow, this is, like, the cleverest attempt of being hit on I've ever been exposed to." Possibly the only one, too, but that Fran can’t say for sure. After all, he has a tendency to misunderstand people’s advances.

“I’m not trying to hit on you,” Bel remarks.

Fran has a tendency to misunderstand but _this time_ he’s understood loud and clear. “What the hell are we doing here then?”

Bel’s hand that’s been lying on his forearm starts to move, brushing slowly up and down the naked skin. “Well, we’re just fooling around a little.”

The prince can fool around just with himself, for all Fran cares. He doesn’t want to become known among the Varia – nor in the eyes of his Master – as a person who jumped to bed with his deranged tutor immediately when the chance presented itself. He bravely tries to ignore the tickling fingertips but can already feel nerve impulses setting off, travelling around his body, giving him goose bumps and causing involuntary twitching. 

His tutor has the edge. Bel is far more experienced; he is able to identify Fran’s reactions, to adapt and encourage them. As soon as Fran starts to squirm, the prince takes full advantage of it, obtruding his personal space… well, okay, so that’s already happened ages ago, but Bel edges so close to his side that his bare stomach touches Fran’s arm. The sneaky fingers are back on the hem of his shirt and the lips are fumbling the corner of his mouth. A new kiss suffocates Fran’s protests.

There’s something primitively alluring in a touch of a naked skin. Something obliging. Even though Fran is terrified to the point of his heart trying to shatter his ribs, he finds himself clinging onto the strong, warm body, arching his back to glue himself against it. He only needs to give in for a second, and the blond is already removing his shirt, bundling it under his arms and sneaking a hand behind his back to lift him. Fran exhales when the shirt messes his hair as it get pulled over his head, feeling suddenly very self-conscious.

He’s never thought to look particularly interesting; he’s always been a tad underweight and puberty hasn’t really built up his muscles. Compared to Bel’s compact frame he’s downright scrawny. Not to even mention the fact that he doesn’t know any tricks or moves or whatever people do in bed. Does Bel realise he’s not going to find anything that could be described as seductive, charming or sexy in this room? Maybe excluding himself.

So far the prince doesn’t seem to care. His fingers are fiddling Fran’s sides, passing on his abdomen, stopping to play with the tiny nub on Fran’s chest. The lips move onto his neck, sucking and drawing moist paths, and Fran squeezes his eyes shut as the feeling becomes too intensive, too… foreign. Blood is bustling in his veins, thronging in narrow passages and an excessive amount of the heat is gathered below his navel. 

Bel smiles against his neck, when Fran’s lets out a squeak and without warning the hand that’s been caressing his chest moves to the waistline of his pants, peeking under it and something hard is rubbing against his hip and…

..and this is definitely proceeding too fast!

For the umpteenth time at that night Fran pulls himself off, crawling further on the bed. His mind is staggering inside his skull like a junkie burgled in a storage room of a pharmacy, his pulse is climbing up his windpipe and the heat harassing his groin has emerged to a full flame. How is it possible for a person to be horrified and aroused at the same time?

”Hey, I didn’t permit you to do anything!”

“Shishi, the prince didn’t ask.”

Fran really has no experience on the matter but he’s pretty sure this is one of those situations where it’s common practise to ask permission. Just so one wouldn’t commit a crime. But they are already criminals. Hmm…

Bel is emitting serious frustration and inches back to Fran’s side. Fran pulls himself free, worming further away, and tuteur follows him. They continue their little game until they are hovering on the edge of the bed and Fran is going to slip on the floor if he dares to move.

“I was under the impression this is usually initiated in a different way,” he notes to play for some time.

“What do you mean?”

“You could, for instance, have asked me out.”

“Why? That would be too slow.”

Perhaps it would be. Besides, Fran is having a hard time picturing himself and his tutor on a traditional date. What would they do? Sit in a fancy restaurant, a fluttering candle, glasses of wine and fried scallops in front of them, and throw insults on each other’s face?

“I don’t want to go out with you”, Bel continues. “I just want to fuck you.”

Hot charcoals drop on Fran’s cheeks and he reckons at the moment he resembles more a tomato than a frog. _Thanks for your honesty, Tuteur._

He clears his throat and tries by the sheer power of his mind to force blood back to underneath layers of his skin. “I suppose I have something to say on the matter?”

“Hmpf, say it then.”

Fran arranges the mishmash of his mind, pondering which arguments might most effectively break through the prince’s arrogant self-confidence. He’s got Gonorrhea or some other nasty STD? No, that would only present him in a bad light and Bel might turn up a condom package from a secret pocket of his clothes. He’s tired? That’s actually true, but on the other hand even a bat suffering from glaucoma could see his widened eyes. And Bel probably would show no compassion. His head is hurting? Haa haa.

He supposes he must tell the truth and count on it that this part of common social skills has been part of Bel’s upbringing. Fran crosses his fingers, hoping that the person who’s been in charge of the prince’s birds and bees talk answers to the name Lussuria.

“This may come as a surprise but I… kind of haven’t…” Fran gulps as his voice cracks slightly. The monotony has taken off with the first express flight and the poker face has curled up in a corner, ashamed of its master’s wriggling. “I have never done it before.”

He’s left to struggle with his tightening throat, waiting for Bel’s reaction. At least the blond doesn’t immediately launch a counterargument. He’s sprawled on his side, leaning on his elbow, a hand supporting his head, watching Fran. Behind the overly long fringe, the wheels seem to be turning.

“That’s really no surprise”, he finally states. Fran expects the prince to continue, to add that Fran is so unattractive that even sex addicts get cured just by glancing at him and that he should be thankful of the prince’s unique, once-in-a-lifetime offer. But Bel is merely scratching his cheek, absent-minded. “It’s about time, though, I’d say. How old were you again?”

“Seventeen.”

Is he imagining things, or does a faint relief flash on tuteur’s face? “Like I said, it’s about time.”

“Couldn’t we just..?” Fran is again scouring for his lost vocabulary. His verbal abilities have totally vanished during this mad episode. “Can I think about it first?”

Bel laughs a little, mostly to himself, and finally complies. At least that’s what it looks like, because he stops pushing himself against Fran and lowers his head onto the pillow, relaxing. “Think about it then, froggy. But don’t think for too long.”

_Or?_

There is no ‘or’. The prince rolls onto his back and throws his arm across his forehead, a small smile resting on his lips. Fran assumes he’s closed his eyes. He dares to move towards the center of the bed, on the spot Bel warmed up, and lets out a deep sigh as his muscles start unwinding and his pulse quiets down.

“The prince is still going to sleep here,” a lazy voice announces from the pillow next to him.

It’s not like Fran expected anything less. Most probably he’s not going to get a minute of sleep himself tonight, being too busy guarding the swift fingers of his uninvited bed mate. 

When the silence has stretched to a safe ten minutes, Fran gets up, tiptoes to turn off the lights and returns hesitantly to the bed. Bel is not touching him, though; the prince has taken over the other side of the bed but is also staying there, and after listening awhile for the blond’s steady breathing, Fran finally lets his eyelids slide shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, Bel really sucks at this.


	9. Act VIII

**Act VIII – If the Homo sapiens were in fact ‘homo’ sapiens… is that why they are extinct?**

 

In the small hours of the night Fran finally falls asleep. When a slight snore bubbles from the froggy’s mouth, Bel raises his hand to scratch at his temple that’s been itching the last fifteen minutes. He’s been lying completely still, pretending to sleep and apparently Fran fell for it hook, line, and sinker since the tension emitting from the boy finally dissolved. He turned his back on Bel, sighed and sort of just decided to succumb to the sleep.

Bel’s got it harder. The need that’s been pestering him the last days… no, weeks, has not faded in the slightest and in his mind tonight the torment was supposed to end. Instead the gnawing has increased, delved deeper, as he managed to graze the finish line and is now forced to lie next to it, at an arm’s reach and yet too far, like a marathonist stumbling on a last meter.

He has no idea why he allowed Fran to have his way. Maybe the frog has woken a primitive instinct within him; something that’s been buried beneath the conscious person – that is now guiding him to achieve the target of his interest. Or maybe it’s just the voice of Mammon, nagging in the back corner of his brain, lecturing him of the rules of human interaction.  
________________________________________________________________________________

_“Bel, one day you’ll meet someone that will become more important to you than anyone else before that, and you’ll want them to like you as well. Then you must remember you can’t hurt them. You won’t get them to like you if you hurt them.”_

_“But what if I want to hurt?”_

_“Then you are unable to reach your goal.”_

_“What if my goal is to see their blood?”_

_Mammon sighs, mumbling to herself about the inadequacy of her fee. “Then you’ll never get to do with them things you want more than cutting.”_

_The ten-year-old prince is staring the Arcobaleno, head slightly tilted. Such things exist? Then something clicks._

_”Oh, you mean sex now?”_

_Mammon is just about to choke even though her mouth is empty. “Ahem, well, that too.” Then the little illusionist tentatively adds. “Levi hasn’t left any of his… eeh, private videos lying on the living room table, has he?”_

____________________________________________________________________________________

Bel is fairly sure Lussuria paid Mammon to give him ’the talk’. What Mammon didn’t foresee was the prince to be aware of the reproductive behaviour of human race, which was indeed a bit naïve, after all they were living in the 1990’s and Bel was housing under the same roof with four potty-mouthed teenagers. 

What Mammon couldn’t tell either, was that the person who’d finally snake his way under Bel’s skin would be so annoying that he can’t decide whether he’d prefer to strangle him or have steaming hot, kinky monkey sex with him. Perhaps both and at the same time. The problem is just that if he strangles Fran, the boy dies and future sessions of steaming hot, kinky monkey sex would become slightly difficult. And he’s not Lussuria who, according to the lore, has a basement full of male candidates with breathing disabilities.

Suppose he prefers Fran alive after all. Besides, as annoying as the froggy is, slaying his colleagues without an extremely substantial reason would throw him in front of the in-family discipline committee. And neither Vongola IX nor his snot-nosed successor considers the annoyance of a colleague as an extremely substantial reason.

Reluctantly, Bel has to admit that for the first time of his life he might be interested in someone _romantically_. Urgh, the mere word makes his hair stand on end. But it doesn’t seem like he just wants to screw Fran. Yes, he wants that too, several times a day and a few months in a row, thank you very much, but furthermore, he is troubled by a need to hover in the vicinity of the young illusionist, communicate with him, and make him react. Make him notice the prince.

Because nothing irritates him more than getting ignored. 

He deems he’s done the right thing tonight. Mammon would be proud. Fran’s usually so blank face shone a clear alarm, when he understood which way their little encounter was heading for, and Bel felt like this time waiting outdid forcing. Let the frog come to the prince.

He had already guessed the boy to be completely inexperienced. You can actually see it from him – of how he’s only interested in books and the Discovery Channel. But the best way to infer it is from the way he reacts to a touch, at the same time intensely and timidly. Fran is living the years when your body likes to mess with you; when it’s the hardest to understand. It’s only a matter of time when Bel has the young illusionist breaking.

Anyway, now the boy is sleeping more or less peacefully beside him. He budges again, testing the waters, but Fran is fast asleep and Bel dares to turn towards him. Fran smells like a grass drying in the sun, summer days, clean, and inexperienced and… Bel nuzzles the green hair, inhaling deeply, and with an uttermost care, with the skill of an assassin, lowers his arm across the lean body, experimenting how they’d feel against each other. How it feels to hold the boy. Fran fits perfectly against his chest. Bel listens to his breathing, phasing his own with it.

He’s totally out of his mind. Completely lost it and he doesn’t give a crap. Let the brat be seventeen. Let him an infuriating frog. Bel doesn’t care. He wants Fran. Completely, naked on his bed, submissing, committing, feeling.

And the prince always gets what he wants.

* * *

Mammon is floating in the empty hallways, content that even in this circus it’s quiet and calm at six thirty am. Occasionally it irks her to get tired so early in the evening but with the years, the memories of living in a grown-up body have faded, and the plus sides include the peace of mornings. She is able to enjoy her breakfast in silence and in the best scenario she manages to flee before the first nuisance, usually a certain white-haired human megaphone, emerges to spoil the view.

This morning she’s not so lucky. The lights are on in the kitchen, a thick smell of coffee fills the air and she spots a tall figure sitting at the granite island.

Lussuria. Mammon sighs to herself. Of choices at hand Lussuria is next to the best. He doesn’t know how to keep quiet but he’s not going to rage or threaten others. The mohawk lifts, as the man spots Mammon.

“Oh, good morning, Mar!”

“Why are you up so early?” the illusionist asks, gliding to the larder and picking up a bag of biscotti.

“Need to leave for an assignment soon,” the Sun Guardian tells her and sips his coffee boosted with cream and a busload of sugar. He’s fully dressed aside the uniform coat and sparklingly pink boa resting on the chair next to him. “It’s a two-hour drive to Bologna anyway.”

“You’re going alone?”

“Yup. A routine gig.”

Mammon shakes biscotti on her plate and pours some orange juice in her glass before moving to sit on a barstool opposite to Lussuria.

”Mar,” the Muay Thai master begins. His spoon is stirring the foam stuck in the bottom of the cup. The furrow between the brows deepens. “I’ve wanted to talk to you about something but there really hasn’t been an opportunity and at some point I already forgot it.”

“Mhm?” Mammon raises her brows though Lussuria is unable to see it.

“About Bel.”

A sparkle of enthusiasm presents itself in the chest of Mammon, as she wraps her fingers more tightly around the glass. She’s also wanted to broach the subject but she hasn’t had a chance to be alone with Lussuria, and the show behind the scenes isn’t that juicy that she’d purposely gravitate to his company.

She collects her coolness, takes a sip from her glass and returns it onto table before opening her mouth. “Yes, what about him?”

“Don’t you think that lately he’s been behaving oddly?”

“In what way do you mean oddly?”

“Well, you’re the one who knows Bel best,” Lussuria notes, trying to throw the ball into her court, but Mammon is not seizing. “It’s been going on for a while now, several weeks even. First of all, he’s kind of like forgetting himself into his own world. Then those mood changes. I know he’s always been short-tempered but lately he’s either gone uphill or downhill at full speed, nothing in between. I was already considering ringing Dr. Shamal. Just because we know Bel’s history…”

“You don’t need to ring,” Mammon assures. “It’s not that kind of problem.”

Lussuria straightens his back, the spoon halting its stirring. “Oh, so you know something?”

“I might know something.”

The Sun Guardian lets out an extremely feminine squeal. “You’ve got gossip? Mar, you have to tell me!”

Mammon ponders the situation, munching her biscotti and ignoring the Gaylord’s enthusiasm. She could ask Lussuria to pay for the revelation, but he might not necessarily take the bait. A good old betting on the other hand... 

”You must promise not to tell anyone.”

“Who the hell would I tell in this house? It’s not like somebody cares.”

_Don’t say. They might care about this._

“Promise first.”

“Alright, I promise. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“Okay, it has to do with Fran.”

At first Lussuria looks like he’s totally surprised by Mammon’s words, his brows catapulting to the hairline and mouth hanging open, but then he claps his hands together and releases a new high C. “I knew it! I knew Fran had something to do with it!”

His delight is so genuine that Mammon simply must take his word for it. And it’s not exactly that she hadn’t already suspected Lussuria to have taken notice. Bel has been careful but some of them are more observant when it comes to the human relations. Some of them, ergo Mammon, because she knows Bel, and Lussuria because he is, well, Lussuria.

“What do you know, Mar-Mar?” the Sun Guardian persuades. “You’ve got to tell me! I know you want to. I can see it in your face.”

_Bullshit, I’m just thinking how to best fleece you._

“Hold on, let me guess!” Lussuria continues. “Bel is… no, Fran is… Nooo, don’t say Fran has…” If Mammon was able to see her companion’s eyes they’d probably be shining diamonds right now. “..a crush on Bel?”

“No, Bel has.”

For a passing second Lussuria is completely lost. Christ, how many options the situation is exactly offering? “Bel has..?” Then Mammon sees the bullet hit its target. ”Bel has a crush on Fran?”

“Yep.” The illusionist can’t resist of straightening her back just a little. She munches her last biscuit, flushes it down with the remains of juice, goes to pour herself some more, and returns to her seat. And all the while Lussuria is staring at her through her tinted glasses.

“Are you shitting me?”

“No.”

“Has Bel said it?”

“He doesn’t have to.”

“But he hates…”

“Tch, he just thinks so.”

“ _Madonna mia!_ Holy virgin, you don’t hear this kind of news every day! Poor Bel, he must be confused out of his mind. Should I go and give him some sisterly advice?”

“You cant’ say a word to him,” Mammon rejects. “He will only deny it and might also back off if he realises we have figured it out.” Technically Bel already _knows_ Mammon has figured it out but that the prince has been able to endure. But if he instead realises also Lussuria has found out…

“To Fran then.”

Mammon shakes her head. “We are not interfering. We should only stay put and survey the situation evolving.”

“Hnngh!” Lussuria wrestles with himself. ”Oh, those two fool boys! And Fran is so young! What if I… just a couple of encouraging words… I’m sure he doesn’t understand his feelings!”

Fran probably understands his feelings better than Bel. As far as Fran even possesses feelings.

“We are not going to interfere,” Mammon repeats. “Instead of that, what we actually __can do…”

Lussuria leans forwards, his cheeks burning of anticipation. “Yes?”

“We can make a bet.”

A shadow of doubt flashes on the Sun Guardian’s face, as he tilts his head, scanning the Arcobaleno. “About what?”

“Say, for how long it takes Fran to break. Or if he is going to break at all.”

“He’s going to break alright. Bel knows how to be damn charming when he chooses to. Besides, Fran is…” Lussuria lowers his voice despite the fact no other souls are present and his previous cries have carried all the way up to the furthest end of the mansion. “..gay.”

_You didn’t know that. And you can’t say for sure yet. As far as one is able to make something out that brat, he’s more interested in nature documents than his own species._

“Okay, so what do we bet on?”

“Just wait a minute, how can I be sure you don’t know anything else than you let out?”

Mammon huffs. “Right now the situation is as follows: Bel has a crush on Fran, Fran most probably has no clue, and Bel is about to rip his uniform in his frustration. No more, no less. But from this point on… I reckon Fran is going to turn Bel down first and Bel is going to pursue for as long as it takes the little frog to see there are no other options than giving in.”

“And then what?”

“Hard to say. Maybe Bel gets bored after a couple of rounds in bed.”

“I don’t think so,” Lussuria protests. “I reckon they become an item. Shall we bet on it?”

“Too uncertain. I think we should bet on a time limit; how long does it take Fran to submit to Bel’s will.”

“How will we know the result?”

“I suppose there are ways, but at the latest when their affair becomes public news. Because it’s going to at some point. Then we simply need to ask who was right.”

“I deem Fran is going to procrastinate for weeks.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s going to buckle before Christmas.”

“Alright, you say before Christmas, I’m going to say after it,” Lussuria sums it up. “What counts as giving-in? Kissing? Admitting their feelings?”

”Admitting their feelings is going to take longer and kissing is merely... Bel could plunge into it on his own, and it cannot really be counted as Fran’s breaking.”

“Sex then?”

“I guess we can agree on that.” Mammon cranes to pick a notebook forgotten on the table and starts to scribble down their conditions. “I say Bel and Fran will sleep together before Christmas, you say after it. How much do we bet?”

“Hundred euros?”

“How about two hundred?”

“Fine.”

Two hundred euros isn’t an amount to jerk the Varians but Mammon is satisfied anyhow. Thin streams grow into wide rivers: a tiny bet here and there, and soon there will be a notable pile of dough resting on her bank account.

She composes two similar texts in the notebook and turns them around for Lussuria to take a look. “Sign it.”

Lussuria is not protesting because a written agreement works for his advantage, too. The Sun Guardian skims over Mammon’s scribbling in case of loopholes before jotting his signature after it. The illusionist pulls the leaves off, giving the other one to Lussuria and taking the other for herself. She even detaches the empty page beneath those and scrunches it into a tight ball. Just in case her writing has imprinted into it.

“And neither one of us is allowed to interfere with the events to come. You are not permitted to try to speed up the process,” Lussuria remarks.

“It doesn’t say that in the contract.”

Lussuria snatches the papers to himself and adds a new clause – ‘The parties are not allowed in any way to try to have an effect on the result’ – before turning it back to Mammon. “It says now.”

The Arcobaleno purses her lips as she reads over the new line. “’In any way’?”

“You said it yourself. Any kind of interfering is forbidden. You are not allowed to bribe Fran, agitate Bel or definitely not to use your illusions. As well as I’m not allowed to try to keep them separated or otherwise attempt to tailor the result to my liking.” A sweet smile spreads on Lussuria’s face as he supports his chin in his hands. “If you’ll interfere, Mar dear, I’ll interfere too, and I’m fairly sure delaying the events works smoother than accelerating them.”

Son of a bleeping gun. Mammon scratches the back of her hood-covered head, scanning the contract one more time but the clause is, in its entire conciseness, absolute. That prancing peacock has just blocked her shortcut up to the money tap. Not much she can do about it. She must settle for observing silently then. She folds the paper and barely manages to tuck it inside her cloak before heavy footsteps at the door announce that their little private meeting is over. Squalo, dressed in a hoodie and sweat pants, trudges past his two colleagues, glancing them through the curtain of hair hanging over his face.

“What are you two scheming here?” the commander grunts, voice still rough from sleep. If somebody asked Mammon, she’d say the Varia’s second-in-command required more sleep, but it’s like some sort of demon chases him from his bed at seven o’clock sharp every goddamn morning, no matter whether the sun is peeking in the horizon or it’s raining rancid fish oil.

“We are merely chatting. Good morning to you too, my dear Squ,” Lussuria answers, hiding his copy of the contract.

The Rain Guardian halts in front of the stove and peeks inside the metallic pot. “Is there some coffee?”

“Unfortunately I drank it all.” Lussuria shows his empty cup.

Squalo mumbles profanities under his breath and starts to twist the pot open by pressing it against his chest.

“Not from the handle, Squ! Here, let me.”

Still growling, the commander thrusts the pot to Lussuria who opens the midsection and hands the halves back. There are times when Mammon wonders (and she’s pretty sure she’s not the only one) whether Squalo would have opted to not mutilate his limb if he had known how hard it is to do every-day chores with one hand. She hasn’t had the courage to ask it, though; she kind of likes to be able to breath. Oh well, it’s only a couple of days before the white-haired commander gets to harness his prosthesis and will again be able to open the coffee pot as instructed in its manual. 

Lussuria checks the clock on the wall and announces it’s time for him to sit on the leathery seats of Lamborghini and head for Emilia-Romagna.

“Just remember to slack off on your own time,” Squalo states, stuffing coffee grounds into the filter.

“I thought of checking the sales on the shopping street but I’ll be back for the evening.”

“Buy some mortadella, will you?”

“Sure thing, Squ. And one sausage exclusively for the boss.”

Lussuria collects his coat and boa and struts out of the kitchen. Mammon checks the table for any signs of their contract before also taking her leave. Squalo has a tendency to start making up new responsibilities and delegating them as soon as the first drops of caffeine have absorbed into his circulation and she wants to get out of the way.

“Some easy money on its way, Fantasma,” the Arcobaleno hems to her animal partner as she floats back to the peace of her own room. Lussuria should already know Mammon only wagers on gambles which result she is 99 percent sure of.


	10. Act IX

**Act IX – You know, it’s men like you that give perversion a bad name**

 

Something warm and moving tickles the back of his neck. Fran drifts between sleep and awake, just barely finding his muscle control to scratch the itching spot. After getting rid of the annoyance, he sinks back to the sweet, cottony slumber, trying to catch his recent dream. He can’t remember what it was about but his need to get back to it is persisting. And then the intruder returns. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end; an uncomfortable shudder travels through his body, ruining his plans to sink deeper in his sleep. Fran slaps his neck, leaving his hand to rest against it, and even through his drowsing he feels a warm puff of air caress his fingers.

If a person is used to sleeping alone after the day he got kicked out of his parent’s bedroom, a warm breath hitting his neck can wake him up as efficiently as an ice cold shower. Fran bursts awake with only one thought rioting in his mind. 

_There’s someone in my bed._

Just before his assassin reflexes kick in – because against common assumption Fran can move like an athlete when he feels threatened – one of the more active cells of his brain manages to dig up the nightly episode: Bel’s unexpected visit, his unimaginable behaviour, the pile of vague confessions, and the whole general madness that led to the fact that the prince is now sleeping in Fran’s bed. And judging by the breath he’s not sleeping too far!

Fran is about to roll onto his back when he realises something is slowing his movements. Something heavy is resting on top of his side. The shape is easily identified, but his fingers still want to make sure, and sneak under the blanket to feel around. He lets out a sigh. At night, tuteur was left to lie on the other side of the bed but now the blond has nuzzled against Fran’s back, slung his arm across Fran’s midriff and is constantly puffing against his neck. He could try to worm further away but his knees are already hanging over the side of the bed. The elbow tactic seems a bit exaggerated so he succumbs to his fate and merely remains where he is. 

Oh man. Had he known what quirk in the time and space continuum would lead him to this path, he would have chosen the opposite direction.

A shred of a pale December sun is peeking through the curtains. It’s probably around ten or eleven o’clock. Commander Squalo must have found some extremely interesting task to occupy his time since he hasn’t been hollering at the door. How fortunate that he happened to find it precisely this morning. By no means would Fran want to be discovered in the same bed with his tutor.

It’s not about him protecting his chastity, no, he doesn’t give a damn whether he’s carrying the label of virginity on him, but they are talking about Bel. His bloodthirsty tuteur who’d at this very moment be sitting in a madhouse wrapped in a straitjacket, had the Varia not taken the little prince under their wing. 

The whole episode exceeds the capacity of his brain. He can’t really believe Bel would go this far just to make his subordinate feel miserable. He _could have_ believed it, if last night the blond had fought to get his way, but Bel backed off, took his word when Fran told he needs some time to think.

Why did he even say that? Jesus Christ!

It’s not like he actually wants to..? He hasn’t really thought of what his first time would be like, because he considers himself one of those people who wait patiently and eventually things just happen, but of those rare visions to have crossed his mind, this is definitely not among them!

Okay, so maybe he’s thought about it just a tiniest bit. He’s imagined to at some point meet a nice girl, who’d also like books and watch nature documents. A perfectly regular, cute girl from next door, someone he could hold hands with while walking on a street, and eat ice cream from a same cup.

Not a lunatic fake prince. 

But reasoning or revising his plans doesn’t change the fact that he reacted to his tutor’s approach. Reacted in a wrong way. Instead of throwing up and storming into the bathroom to brush his teeth with chlorite and scrub his skin raw in a shower he…

Fran lets out a frustrated whimper. He really can’t see a way out of this pinch. Behind him, Bel budges, scratching his side and stretching, before he slaps his arm back on Fran and settles down again. And because the prince is hugging Fran’s back like wallpaper, he is able to feel every move, every inhale and muscle twitch. He also feels something stir against his buttock. Something hot and alive.

Oh God, no!

He tries to pull his hips away from the other and somewhat manages to do it but as a result he’s lying with his back arched, legs uncomfortably straight and hovering on the edge of the bed. The elbow tactic starts to sound like a considerable option, especially since Bel is not reconciling to his part but inches back to his original position. Seriously, is he even asleep anymore?

Fran works a new gap between them, a centimeter or two, because there really isn’t any more space in the bed, but the stupid imitation of a prince continues his molesting – literally by poking Fran in the ass with his damned morning wood. Fran startles and the next moment the mattress disappears from under him. As a reflex he grabs the blanket and drags it onto the floor with him. Thuds surge through him, jamming his jawbone, and the pain incises all the way up to the tips of his fingers, and Fran knows his hip is going to have a purple-blue decoration for the next couple of weeks. Why the hell isn’t there a carpet beside his bed? First thing to do after he’s got rid of his nuisance of a tutor: purchase a soft carpet for both sides.

“What is the little froggy doing?” A ruffled mop of hair peeks over the side. Bel’s voice is so sleepy he probably woke up only now, after hearing Fran’s bungling.

Fran rubs his abused hip and only then realises that his elbow seems to have taken a hit as well. He met the floor with his entire left side, and in an encounter of a rock and a human tissue the latter usually gets the receiving end. 

“The fake prince pushed me from the bed.”

“Hmh, you probably deserved it.” Bel yawns widely and drops his head back onto the pillow. “Give the blanket back. The prince is cold.”

_Right away, Your Highness, after I’ve checked the state of my bones._ Fran crawls to sit up and grimaces. His whole left side from his knee to hip is a pure symphony of pain. The elbow loses to it but only because of its smaller area. He reckons nothing is broken but the next few days will be spent in agony if he soon can’t get treatment from Lussuria’s peacock. By leaning on his right leg and the edge of the bed, he’s able to drag himself up and sit on the mattress. He picks the blanket up from the floor, throwing it back on the bed, rather to cover his half-nude tuteur than obey his orders.

Bel has turned to lie on his stomach and wraps his arms around Fran immediately when the opportunity presents itself, rubbing his face against the illusionist’s bare back. Fran shivers unwillingly.

“The prince wants to shower with the frog.”

“I don’t need a shower. I took one last night.”

“But frogs love water.”

“Well, should we interpret it so that I’m not a frog?”

“Fran doesn’t like bathing? Dirty little peasant.”

_If that talk is supposed to turn me on, you can stop immediately_. He grasps the blond’s hands, trying to untie them from his midriff, but Bel is holding on tightly and next Fran can feel a hot puff of air on his skin as tuteur opens his lips.

Oh the sagging hindquarters of Christ! Fran hauls himself forward, getting on his feet. Bel follows behind and for a while they are lingering in a ridiculous position, Fran standing next to the bed, Bel hanging onto him, his body on the mattress from the waist below, the upper half hovering in the air, only supported by his arms wrapped tightly around Fran. If Fran moved forward, the blond would thump on the floor. The thought allures him, as sweetly as only a revenge can. His side and elbow are hurting and he can’t lower his weight on the left leg. It would only be fair, if Bel had his share of the physical injuries.

“Tuteur, I’m going to get myself some breakfast. Either you let me go or I’ll drag you with me.”

Bel snorts, Fran more feels than hears it. “You can’t drag me even for a meter, you weakling.”

_Wanna bet?_ Bel is physically stronger but Fran is driven by a determination. He takes a deep breath, digging his heels into the floor, preps his mind to ignore the pain – for that he’s had a lot of practise, thanks to his tuteur – and leaps forward, pulling the burdensome prince with him. And Bel is moving. He fails to catch himself, mainly because he didn’t believe Fran would actually carry out his threat, and his other knee hits the floor hard. An unhealthy crack makes Fran wince.

The prince swears with such a dedication and skill it would make even the most unrepentant pirates ashamed of themselves.

“You stinking roach! Miserable, scabby leech! I will gut you and hang your sad little remains on a stick for scavengers to eat!”

_And last night you wanted to have sex with me. You should really make up your mind already._

Bel has loosened his grip of him and is now sitting on the floor, holding his injured knee. A purple spot is already gathering underneath the pale skin. Daggers surging from the invisible gaze make Fran question which one of the Varians actually possesses the Thunder flame. Though the Storm hits quite close…

“You will pay for this! I’ll throw you off the roof on spears!”

“Tuteur Bel, in all honesty,” Fran begins, keeping his voice as patient as possible. “You were the one who first dropped me on the floor. The whole left side of my body hurts like fuck. You were the one hanging onto me even though I said I’ll head for the breakfast. I’m about to go and have it at this very second, so I advise you to collect your royal bones and clothes from my floor and get the hell out my room.”

Fran is hungry. He also needs to pee, but he’s going to hold for as long as it takes him to get beyond the reach of his deranged tutor. First he’s going to find Lussuria and make him heal his mauled body.

Bel is angry. As a downside the prince is probably going to repay Fran for the treatment (which was perfectly justified), but then again, as an upside he gets to his feet and starts to gather his clothes, quickly putting them on. And all the while curses and murder threats are flying from his mouth. The raging quiets down only when the door slams after the blond. Fran manages to note Bel is limping. 

He feels like he should be gloating more. 

Oh well, it’s hard to jump for joy when an excruciating, throbbing pain is gnawing on your nerves.

Fran waits for a few minutes to be sure Bel is not coming back, then hurries to the bathroom and locks the door.

* * *

Squalo has had a fairly decent morning. He’s drunk his coffee, gone for a short jogging session, had a shower, and sat at the kitchen island to read today’s Trentino. Lussuria is in Bologna which means he’s not filling Squalo’s ears with his unnecessary chatter. Mammon hasn’t been seen after seven. Xanxus is lounging in his room and is apparently having a 24-hour-long siesta because nothing has been heard of him since yesterday’s lunch (Squalo feels like he _should_ go and check but really, why bother, he’s just going to send someone else as soon as he sees them). Levi is probably arranging his not-so-secret collection of adult entertainment, augmenting it in the wonderland of internet or doing something else Squalo wants to know absolutely nothing about. The lunatic carrying a prince’s title is nowhere to be seen, not that Squalo considers it a big loss. Fran then… he’s usually quite invisible apart from the absurd headwear and an occasional insult diarrhea bursting from his mouth, but no, he hasn’t shown his face that morning either.

Squalo wonders whether he should be concerned because even though all the Varians are adults (Fran close to it, too) they certainly don’t seem to know how to take care of themselves. Silence might indicate that the little pests are committing misdeeds.

His pondering and peace get interrupted as one of the imps mentioned before shambles to the kitchen. Shambles or, phrased more accurately, limps. Squalo says nothing immediately, merely follows over his newspaper as the green-haired illusionist – who today has forgotten his frog hat – moves clumsily across the room and starts to rummage around in the fridge. The little rascal is yearning for something sweet again. Unbelievable habit, to scoff a dessert first thing in the morning (though in Squalo’s opinion half past eleven is not even close to the morning). 

“VOIIII!” he exclaims, making Fran yank his head back. “What the hell is the matter with you? Did you sit on a pineapple?”

“I fell off the bed, idiot-commander.”

“Incredible bungling! Fasten yourself to it for the next night.”

“Yes, Commander. By the way, do you know where Lussuria is?”

“On a business trip to Bologna.”

“When is he coming back?”

“Not before the nightfall.”

“Oh, okay.” Fran picks up a cup of rice pudding and a spoon, and hobbles out of the kitchen. Squalo stares after the boy for a minute, shaking his head, before preoccupying himself with the newspaper again. His cell phone starts to vibrate on the table and he glances at it before rejecting the call. Despite his sick leave he’s the one receiving all their assignments, delegating them and making sure every one of them is properly reported. Unfortunately, he’s also the one keeping in touch with Vongola IX and his successor, since Xanxus adamantly refuses to have anything to do with either of them.

But Squalo draws the line at answering the calls from Cavallone. If the alliance family needs them, they can call Xanxus or anyone else in the Varia and most likely manage to deliver their message. Dino on the other hand has nothing more to say than ‘Would Squalo like to go out for a drink, or maybe Squalo could come and visit him, or Dino could come and visit the Varia, or hey look, it’s a wonderful day for a little car ride!’

The phone rings again, making Squalo hit the reject button. On a second thought he could actually turn it off. The Varia have a shared Samsung, the Common Assignment Phone, as it is aptly called, and even in case it happened to fail, the other members have their own cells. 

He turns a new page in the Trentino, planning to immerse again in the events of his home town, but an indistinct rustle from the door forces him yet again to lift his eyes. 

Another member of the lost airhead regiment has found their way into the kitchen, this time Prince the Ripper himself. Squalo chooses the same strategy he used with Fran, staying quiet and unmoved but letting his eyes glide after the Storm Guardian.

Bel is limping, too. In fact much worse than Fran who moved more like Quasimodo with a cactus shoved up to his ass. The prince can’t put his weight on the right leg, the heel touches the ground but he hops over the right step. A grimace of pain is visible on his face, as he supports himself on the island, inching towards the fridge with a same goal as his subordinate. Squalo ponders if he should just not ask.

Maybe Bel has been training and estimated a distance wrong while jumping over a barrier. It happens to the best of them, miscalculations. The blond is dressed after all…

A small voice in the back corner of his brain is laughing its ass off.

“What the fuck happened to _you_?” he snarls.

Bel doesn’t react as quickly as Fran. He takes his time to snoop around the fridge, slams the door shut and begins to scour the cupboard. A bag of toasts and a Nutella jar appear on the counter, and then a drawer gets pulled open, making utensils chink. 

“Hey, ass-face, I’m talking to you!”

Bel is still not looking at him. “I fell off the bed.”

Squalo is beginning to feel helpless against this stupidity. They are supposed to be the cleverest, fastest, most efficient assassin group in Italy and the members hurt themselves by falling off their beds!

“Should I get cribs for you two?”

Suddenly he gets the prince’s full attention. “What do you mean ‘you two’?”

“That damned French frog had fallen off his bed, too.”

The corner of Bel’s mouth is tugging but not because of a smile. He lets out a snort and starts to spread chocolate paste on a toast, pretending to be calm, but his knuckles are turning white, teeth are scrunching, and nostrils get pinched in a way horses do when they are angry.

(The metaphor does not contain any references to Dino Cavallone.)

Bel is in a bad mood. How convenient. But it’s not like Squalo doesn’t know how to handle cranky insane princes. The good old spanking works surprisingly well for a bit older brats, too.

“Your bed is 160 centimeters wide,” he can’t resist adding. “How is it possible to fall from a bed that large?”

“I fell, and that’s it.”

_Okay, he fell and that’s it. At least I don’t need to feel guilty if I refer to myself as the only capable person of this household._

Bel has finished making his snack, takes a bite of it and opens his mouth to speak so Squalo can see what kind of gunk toast and Nutella turn into as a result of chewing and salivation. “Where’s Lussuria?”

“In Bologna. I told the same thing to your little frog.”

The chewing stops. “ _My_ frog?”

”The brat’s your burden.”

“You could actually offload him to someone else.”

“Not going to happen. The latest member briefs new reinforcements.”

“I came to the Varia eighteen years ago. Besides, Mammon was away for a while, and she’s an illusionist like Fran. Couldn’t–?”

“No,” Squalo states and lowers his gaze to imply the conversation is over. Bel grabs his snack and limps to the door, rage radiating from him.

“Don’t come pointing your finger at me if we soon need to dig a hole in the backyard.”

“If something happens to Fran, you’ll answer to Vongola.”

A colourful gust of curses emits from the prince. It continues for as long as the stony structures are able to carry it. A door slams further in the hallway. Squalo lets out a sigh, before turning his attention back to the news. An incipient headache is lurking behind his temples.

Two days. Two more days and he’ll be able to use his sword hand again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small, useless detail: Trentino is a local newspaper in the city of Trento. I’ve placed the Varia headquarters in Lombardy, near the city of Cremona, but Italians are often emotionally attached to their home region and in my experience stay mentally as citizens of their hometown even though they live in a different place. I’ve come to the conclusion that Squalo must be from the north, being so disciplined and meticulous. So therefore Trento. :D


	11. Act X

**Act X - I'm sorry I was so rude before but it's difficult for me to express myself when I am on the verge of exploding in my pants**

 

A week and a half after the Grand Floor Encounter, Bel’s leg is not hurting anymore. The bruises have faded, he can put his weight on it again, and he wouldn’t probably even remember the event, if certain details weren’t attached to it. Details that remind him how royally he screwed up his attempt to warm up the young illusionist.

Mostly he’s pissed about the fact that he was _so close_ , he had the boy in his bed (or in Fran’s bed to be specific but it really makes no difference) and then the little weasel snaked his way out of his grab and hasn’t said a word to him ever since. Alright, so maybe he promised to murder the frog in several colourful ways, but Fran should already know Bel has a tendency to pass out empty threats. It’s not like Fran himself would never blurt out things he doesn’t mean!

Their collective bungling had a longer-lasting effect on Fran. His hip got better in a couple of days but a small fracture was found in his elbow and now he has to wear a cast for weeks. Fran is not exactly displeased about it. The arm doesn’t ache if he doesn’t move it (the cast being a great help here) and he welcomes all the free time the sick leave is offering him. Bel heard the brat tell his mind to Lussuria; he’s only getting the cold shoulder.

For a week and a half _nothing_ has gone according to his plans.

* * *

Mammon starts to get a little anxious for the faith of her money – for it is her money though it’s still dwelling in Lussuria’s pocket. Bel has screwed up thoroughly. She doesn’t precisely know how, but since the bet morning Fran has been avoiding his tutor and Bel’s been like a bear with a sore head _and_ ass. The two idiots were already heading for the right direction but then something happened… _something_ that was followed by Bel limping for a half a week and Fran ending up on sick leave. The way they treat each other would freeze hell. And it’s only two crappy weeks until Christmas!

Last Saturday the blond went out alone and stayed away the whole night only to wander back home on Sunday afternoon looking like he’d participated in a 24-hour orgy. Perhaps he had, judging by his ruffled hair, hickeys decorating his neck, and _a perfectly recognisable_ reek of sex that was following him. Mammon could only facepalm, even though she’d thought to be above such internet phenomena. She had promised not to interfere but maybe it was for the benefit of everyone that she urged the prince to shower and change his clothes immediately.

And one must not forget the relatively short but nonetheless baffling period of time when Enrique Iglesias was incessantly played in Bel’s room.

 _I'm not in love. It's just a phase that I'm going through. I'm always looking for something new, but don't go running away..._ aaaand from the start again, boys!

When they had listened to the Spanish guy’s bleating for five days, Squalo concluded the situation and voiced the first suggestion for solving the problem. “That boy is sick. Actually _sick_. Now he’s lost the last of his marbles. Should we finally take him to a shrink?”

“He’s not going to walk out of that appointment,” said Fran who in Mammon’s opinion seemed to suffer too little of his tuteur’s state. “Shrinks are not letting go of such a perfect specimen of lunatic if they ever manage to catch one.”

They finally got a change in the show when Lussuria left his collection of The Most Beautiful Italian Love Songs behind the prince’s door. Although after that they didn’t hear Neapolitan tunes, because Bel answered to the protest by changing his play list to Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance. Well, it was some sort of progress.

That was last week, but now it’s already 12th of December and Mammon isn’t as sure of their bet as she was two weeks ago.

The bet is actually missing an option. What if the two young Varians never make it to the same bed? Fran might turn Bel down – the brat looks like a doormat but during the last weeks he’s proven to be capable of putting up a fight – or possibly already has done it. Bel could get bored if he doesn’t get a response in a tolerable period of time. In that case, what would happen? Would their bet get cancelled or would it stay valid until possibly after seven or something years the frog would find his way to the prince’s bed – and Lussuria would win?

Mammon curses with a devotion completely conflicting with her appearance. She should have set a deadline for Lussuria’s side of the bet.

Of course the game is not over yet. Anything can happen in two weeks. Bel is just heading for a totally wrong direction. He’s never going to win Fran over by abusing, insulting, threatening, shutting himself in his room or especially by fucking half the city. Christ, doesn’t the boy remember any of the advice he got from Mammon?

 

The Arcobaleno is sitting in her room after a strangely quiet dinner. Bel and Fran kept their mouths zipped and avoided looking at each other. Levi took care of Xanxus’ meat and liqueur service. Lussuria tried initiating some small-talk, but Squalo slated the idea by bluntly telling him to keep his mouth shut. Naturally the commander didn’t notice he was being the noisiest person himself, but yeah, on the Varia’s scale, the dinner was quiet.

Mammon has spread her ledger and payslips on her bed and is now counting what kind of damage losing the bet would do to her income. Perhaps she could patch it up by not purchasing anything unnecessary next month, or preferably snatching the money from some other opportunity, for example, a more gainful bet. Levi is stupid enough for Mammon to trick him into some completely brainless gamble. 

She’s so occupied with her calculations that it almost startles her when there’s suddenly a knock on the door.

She’s not expecting anyone particular, and only certain occupants of the house choose to visit her. Bel most often, Lussuria less often, and Squalo in case there’s an assignment for her. It’s not Squalo now, because it’s just not possible for him to move around silently. Maybe Lussuria is having second thoughts of their bet.

Mammon collects the documents revealing her possessions and tucks them to a nightstand drawer before telling the guest to come in. “It’s open.”

The door creaks and slides to the side, revealing blond messy hair. Mammon tilts her head questioningly as the prince steps inside and walks to the bed. The hidden gaze wanders around the room, hands lingering in pockets as Bel puts on an indifferent façade. “Mar, I kind of have… something to talk about.”

In the occasions the blond tries to look like a topic doesn’t concern him, it actually matters to him the most. Mammon inches to the head of the bed, making room, and Bel accepts the silent invitation, sitting on the mattress and letting out a barely audible sigh. 

“Yes, what is it?”

“You remember when we talked about… or you told me the story about that jerk you knew at school?”

“The story that was utter bullshit? Yeah, I remember.”

“Well…” Bel twitches his fingers. ”Listen, if I tell you something, you must promise to keep it to yourself.”

Mammon could ask a fee for her silence but for some reason she chooses not to. “I’m not going to say a word to anyone.”

“I mean anyone. If you tell, I’ll…”

“I’m not going to tell, Bel. And it’s no use for you to start threatening. You know damn well there’s nothing you could do to me.”

Someone might question her remark but this much Mammon trusts the prince. Trusts even though many people would consider it extremely foolish. 

Bel doesn’t seize a perfect topic for arguing. His fingers continue their wriggling; head is hanging low, as he summons courage to voice his confession. Mammon could tell him she already knows – she’s sure also Bel knows that she knows – but in such a stressful situation wrong choice of words might lead to the prince’s escape.

Then the blond opens his mouth and… oh boy.

“You see, that idiot frog… I don’t know what the hell I should do with him. I can’t seem to make any contact with him. He refuses to speak to me, just passes by and reacts to nothing, ignores talk and touching. I could hang him onto a wall and he’d just stare blankly like a sleepwalker. I don’t fucking get it. I don’t understand at which point everything took the wrong turn, because in the beginning it looked like he might consent or…”

“Bel…”

“..he might accept this thing and give in, and I kind of feel like he’s a bit… I mean, it’s not like this doesn’t concern him at least a little, that much I can read him, even though he always pretends to not give a fuck… but he almost agreed… and then he got cold feet or something because naturally he hasn’t done anything of that sort, it’s no wonder, since he’s always so passive…”

“Bel… _Bel!_ ” Mammon exclaims, making the prince quiet down in surprise. “Slow down a little, will you? Let’s start from the beginning. What exactly is wrong now?”

Bel exhales. “Fran is… this whole thing is really complicated but…”

“Listen,” Mammon interrupts again. “What if we stopped pretending I don’t know anything and start from the fact that I do _know_.”

Bel gives in, understanding it’s easier for him, too, when he doesn’t need to define his feelings. He sighs again so dejectedly that something stirs in Mammon’s chest. Something that could be, cautiously, under some circumstances, described as compassion.

“Is Fran not being… eh, compliant?”

“I’m so lost it’s ridiculous. The situation is just so… unfamiliar.”

Mammon hides her smile in the shadow of her hood. _Because this could very well be the first time your feelings are involved._

“Fran just acts so differently than girls.”

“Hmh, he’s not your first male, is he?” Mammon can’t say she knows in the sense to have actually seen, but her intuition is so strong she’s confident to claim she’s known about Bel’s both-way swing for a while now.

“Well… no. But he acts differently nonetheless. I don’t know... What do you think I should do?”

 _What do I think?_ Mammon is about to open her mouth when a certain rubbish scribbled on a notebook page bolts to her mind. She was the one writing the contract and signing it. She agreed with the condition Lussuria added. 

That notebook page clearly forbids her from interfering with the issue but what if _Bel_ comes to _her_? If Bel asks her help? It’s not like she can turn him down?

But even though the contract wouldn’t lapse from her interference, that blasted Sun Guardian promised to stick his nose in the business if Mammon breaks the rules. And if there’s something in this world one should still be able to trust, it’s a written agreement.

“I was already thinking I should ask Lussuria…”

Mammon snaps out of her inner combat. “No, you shouldn’t. Absolutely not.”

Bel’s astonishment is so thorough it can almost be touched, because they are all so accustomed to running to the big sister with their problems.

“Think about it,” Mammon continues. “Lussuria would probably babble it to every living soul in this house. You really want Squalo and Xanxus to find out?”

Bel looks suspicious and for a reason. It’s common knowledge that Lussuria is capable of taking a secret to his grave. Mammon has to make sure the prince doesn’t feel any need to talk to the Sun Guardian.

“So what’s the problem?” she asks, trying to look like nothing in the world interests her more than helping Bel. “Fran is resisting? In what way?”

“At the moment he refuses to speak to me and practically runs away.”

“And what strategies have you tried?”

“Hmm…”

“Okay, let me put it this way: what happened the last time you tried to warm him up?”

“I dropped him off the bed so that he fractured his elbow.”

Mammon curses silently. This is going to be harder than she thought.

Then Bel’s words sink in.

“Off the _bed_?”

“Yeah, the bed.”

“You didn’t already–?” Could it be that she has already won the bet?

“No, no,” Bel crushes her hope. “The frog escaped.”

Damn. “Okay, you dropped him off the bed – in which you were doing nothing. That’s the latest close contact with him, right?”

“The latest close contact when he wasn’t resisting.”

“And now you should try to get back on his good side.”  
“I guess so. But hey, we should begin from the fact that Fran is a complete freak,” Bel remarks. “A boring-minded geek whose greatest satisfaction in life is to watch a nature document and read a book at the same time. Never in my life have I met a duller creature. There are Martians who have been exiled from Mars for being weird who are less weird than that vermin!”  
“Erm, this is probably a stupid question but why on earth..?”

“I don’t fucking know! If you can come up with a cure for me to get rid of these feelings, I’d be more than happy to hear about it.”

_No way, Bel, my little troll cub, not with my money on the line._

“Which one you want more? To get rid of your feelings or get Fran to return them?” 

Bel mumbles to his shirt collar.

“I didn’t understand any of that.”

“The latter, I suppose.”

_That’s more like it._

“But how the hell could I pique his interest?” the blond snaps.

“Not by attacking him.”

”Yeah, I figured, thank you very much.”

“And not by whoring around the city, that’s for sure.”

“That was only… I mused that perhaps I just needed to get laid or something to get rid of these damned thoughts.”

”Didn’t work?”

“No.”

“All the better Fran didn’t see you after you’d returned from your little adventure. Although those hickeys were visible to anyone with slightly better eyesight than a snow-blind mole.”

“What a fucking moralist do you think you are? You mad because you’re stuck in a body of an infant and you’re never getting laid?”

Mammon turns her back at the prince. “Have a nice rest of your life without the frog.”

“Wait, Mar! I was just kidding!” Bel panics. ”If you know a way or a trick to win him over, couldn’t you just tell me? Please?”

Wow, Bel is actually asking – and even sounds begging on top of that. Mammon is pleased she didn’t bet on the prince and the frog episode remaining as a quick bed cruise, since Bel’s feelings run way deeper than mere sex. 

“You could try to treat him better. Pay attention to him and so forth.”

“I am paying attention to him!”

“The fact that you don’t walk over him in the hallway doesn’t mean paying attention. Show that he matters to you. What is important to him; what things has he talked about? Pretend to be interested in them.”

Bel’s face is glowing with shock. “Shit, Mar! Do I need to start watching the Discovery Channel?”

“Well, you could at least show him you remember the stuff he cares about. It will indicate that you listen to him.”

“I do remember some of the stuff, but… what do I actually _do_? Walk up to him and blurt out: ‘Hey, Fran, remember last week you were talking about that Chinese moss document.’ And then what, do I have to discuss about Chinese moss? Jesus Christ, I’m going to fall asleep in mid-sentence!”

“That reminds me, I remember him saying he likes Chinese food.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember that too.”

“Right. So all you need to do is make sure he’s home and hungry and order some Chinese for both of you. That’s a good start.”

“Chinese…” Bel grunts, but Mammon can already see wheels turning behind the overly-long fringe. “Sure, I guess I could do that. But what if he just grabs the cartons and shuts himself to his room?”

“Then you ask him to stay. Ask, don’t command. If he declines, you just accept it and let him be.”

“What the fuck?”

“I guarantee you that next time you’re one step closer if you allow him some space.” As long as Bel doesn’t allow the brat so much space that the show will extend to the next year. Not that Mammon is really concerned. Patience has never been Bel’s virtue.

“Tomorrow you’ll ring the Beijing Pearl, order some takeaway and lure Fran to share it with you. And forget any red meat. Chicken, fish or vegetables. That’s what the brat likes to munch.”

”Frigging ruminant.”

Mammon shrugs. ”Well, I’m not the one yearning to bed that grass devourer.”

* * *

Tuteur is scheming behind his back.

Fran can’t really put his finger on how he knows it, he just does. The cursed blond nuisance abruptly stopped hanging on his heels and the whole day he’s stayed… not out of sight but out of the way which is unheard-of for such an ever-present person as Bel. The blond even turned the other way when he saw Fran approaching.

Not that Fran actually cares. He’s merely curious. Besides, it’s good to stay alert. Bel is one of those people who hide and let their victims bask in the false sense of security before attacking.

Fran’s extremely content with the little extra time off; regardless the fact that the way he gained it was unusually painful. But his elbow is now held unmoved by the cast, it barely hurts at all and otherwise he’s in great condition. The last week he’s spend his time by reading (not Coelho, he gave up on it finally), watching The Big Bang Theory (because sometimes even he needs a break from nature documents) and idling as thoroughly as possible. How awesome it is to watch others work their butts off when he’s allowed to just slack and mock their distress!

That’s the plan for tonight as well, idling. But before that he has to show up for the dinner. God, he hoped Signora Mancini had prepared chicken or fish, but no, the whole evening a thick aroma of roasting meat has been wafting in the hallways. Reckoning it’s time to go to the dining hall, Fran hits the pause on his laptop, puts on his sweater because even though it’s rather warm in the dining hall, the air in the hallways chills the very core of him. He walks to his door and opens it...

..only to find out that a certain fake prince is standing behind it. 

”You know, Tuteur,” Fran begins. “I'm trying to think of the last time I opened a door and you weren't there.”

Anger emerges from the blond and he opens his mouth, undoubtedly to bomb Fran with some extra threats – because he’s been threatened with every imaginable killing method and even with some exceeding his imagination – but then Bel sort of jerks and snaps his lips together.

“Are you hungry?” the voice comes out through his teeth, flattened.

“Um, yes? That’s why I was heading for the dinner.”

“You wouldn’t… Would you… I mean maybe…”

Fran has never heard his tutor speak so insecurely, and he just can’t resist seizing for the opportunity. Or he couldn’t if at the same time he didn’t notice a transparent plastic bag in Bel’s hand. A recognisable waft of spices gets mixed with the stink of meat.

“You ordered Chinese?” he needlessly blurts. The smell tells him the cartons are possibly hiding something coated in Szechuan sauce. His stomach growls and excessive amount of saliva occupies his mouth. Has Bel bought his favourite takeaway dish? For him? Naah, it’s possible, even probable, that the blond has just come to flaunt with his delicacies after finding out Fran has a weak spot for Chinese food.

There are four cartons in the bag, two for sauce and two for rice. Bel’s hardly going to eat it all by himself, is he, even though he could be considered as a crossbreed between a black hole and a hippo?

“Yeah, I ordered Chinese. I thought maybe you’d be interested in… or would you like to..?”

First Fran notices how hard Bel is struggling to present his question even in a remotely polite manner. Does he want to make up? Fran has never heard him apologise or initiate reconciliation. It’s not a common practise amongst the Varians, because arguing, insulting, and threatening are considered normal behaviour. Why apologise for something that happens every day and in which everyone participates?

“Would I like to do what?”

Bel takes a deep breath, gathering his posture. His jaw muscles are strained; fingers clench the bag a little tighter. “Would you like to share these with me?”

_Oh, Tuteur, that’s clever._

The condition for getting the yummy food is to eat it with the crazy-ass blond. Fran would have preferred to savour it alone in front of his laptop while watching one more episode of Sheldon’s and others’ antics. Both options have their bumps. He could accept the prince’s offer and most likely get molested or he could drag himself to the dining hall and listen to the others rant and complain at the dinner table that would again be garnished with a huge lump of half raw meat.

When not receiving an immediate answer, Bel snorts. “I’m not forcing you. I’m sure Mammon is willing to enjoy it with me.”

“What do you have there?”

”One is Szechuan chicken and the other Satay beef.”

Szechuan chicken. Fran suspects the saliva is about to slosh from the corners of his mouth and create a perfect Labrador That Swallowed a Sneaker effect. When was the last time he had Chinese?

Bel is already turning away. “But if you don’t care for it…”

“Wait,” Fran stops him. “I suppose it’s okay. I mean... can’t do any harm, can it? If I can have the chicken?”

“Be my guest.”

”And if we watch The Big Bang Theory while eating.”

“What a motherfuck–“ Bel swallows his words so quickly Fran actually hears a gulp. He has no idea what has happened to his tutor, did he go to some manner instructor, but the change is almost scary. Bel rubs his forehead like he was anticipating headache, his voice defeated. “Okay, fine.”

Fran steps aside, stretching out his arm as an invitation. ”Come on in then, Tuteur.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bel’s remark about Fran and Martians is from the first Mr. Bean movie. “There are Martians who have been exiled from Mars for looking weird who look less weird than this guy!”
> 
> “You know, I'm trying to think of the last time I opened a door and you weren't there.” And this is Mike from Friends. :)
> 
> I don’t know who was the writer that first came up with the idea of Fran watching nature documents and the Discovery Channel. I assume it was SushiBomb so I credit her for it. Go read her fics, they are awesome!


	12. Act XI

**Act XI – I believe the Szechuan Palace has been passing off Orange Chicken as Tangerine Chicken, and I intend to confront them**

 

“Eh, Tuteur, this is not chicken.”

“ _Whaaaat_?” Bel lunges to Fran’s side and peeks inside the carton.

“Looks like pork,” Fran says, picking up a piece of meat with chopsticks and sticking it into his mouth. “Yup, it’s pork.”

“What in the fucking… I clearly stated on the phone that I wanted chicken!”

“Where did you get it?”

“The Beijing Pearl.”

”Ah,” Fran nods. ”Yeah, it happens. I once ordered vegetables and fried rice and got such a selection of meat you’d think they’d hired the boss as their head chef.”

“I’m going to confront them about this!”

”You should always check what’s in your cartons before paying.”

Bel is still fuming. “What a fucking clown restaurant is a place where you don’t even get the dish you ordered?!”

”Take a look at your own meal.” Fran points the chopsticks at the other carton resting on his desk, and Bel quickly rips it open.

“It looks like beef to me…”

“Well, at least they got one right.”

“Are you able to eat that?” The prince looks so defeated that Fran almost, _almost_ feels sorry for him. For the first time in his life Bel has thought someone else besides himself and the effort backfires immediately. In some other occasion Fran might seize a perfect opportunity for nettling but today for some reason he doesn’t feel like it.

”Yeah, I am. Pork is not my favourite but it’s okay in Chinese.” Szechuan sauce covers some of the meaty taste anyway.

Relief flashes on Bel’s face. “Okay, what is that stupid program you want to watch?”

“The Big Bang Theory. Don’t you know it?”

“Sounds like a horrible mega-geek-science show.”

“It’s an American sitcom about physics nerds,” Fran tell him, letting pride shine through his voice. “I’ve got the whole season three on my laptop.”

“You want me to sit on a fucking stool and stare at the minuscule screen of your laptop?”

“You don’t have to. Only if you want to stay.”

Bel curses under his breath before gazing around in the room and slumping down on the bed. “We could sit here.”

“It’s quite far…” Fran muses. If he pushes the laptop near the very edge of the desk they can make sense of the picture but it’s still going to be very small. On the other hand watching the show while sprawled on the bed sounds appealing. “Alright, let’s try it.”

Bel inches to sit his back against the pillows as Fran adjusts his computer. “That’s one tiny picture.”

“My apologies, Tuteur, but you know, you can actually hear the function of the laptop in its name. If the screen was 40 inches, it could hardly be called _lap_ top.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, runt.” The prince changes his position on the bed, settling on his stomach so that his head is in the end of the bed. “This is better.”

Fran starts the episode again and climbs on the bed, next to the blond but far enough for it to be decent. His bed is wide enough for leaving a reasonable and yet natural gap. He can’t eat while lying on his stomach because of his elbow, so he remains in a sitting position, crossing his legs and arraying his dinner in front of him. Eating Chinese from a carton with one and a half hand passes for a challenge, he must admit as he wonders whether he’s going to pour sauce on rice or the other way around. Oh the hard decisions of life! Luckily his right arm was spared of violence because he totally sucks in doing anything, even eating, with his left hand.

Despite the Beijing Pearl dishes not always matching the order, they succeed in tasting good. Fran doesn’t particularly care for pork but after a couple of mouthfuls he forgets the sort of the meat. In the screen Sheldon is in the middle of training Penny with pieces of chocolate.

“Is this supposed to be funny?” Bel asks after ten minutes of watching.

Fran, who’s been sniggering all along the way, glances at his tutour curiously, but to tell the truth, he’s not surprised. “I think it’s funny but maybe it takes a few episodes to get to know the characters.”

“Or maybe you need to be the same kind of bozo as the characters.”

“Hey, you agreed on my terms.”

Bel sighs and lowers his head to rest on his arms. The prince has already inhaled all of his Chinese and pushed the cartons on the floor. If Fran’s opinion was asked, he’d say Bel should apply to one of those stupid TV talent shows. He’d snatch the speed record of eating because he scoffs his food always like a pack of invisible hyenas was prowling it. Fran himself likes to enjoy his meal in all the peace, not caring if it turns cold, but he can’t resist flaunting at his tutor who seems to be suffering from the quick run out of his own meal. At least that’s what Fran thinks of the looks Bel is giving him.

As a matter of fact Bel seems more interested in Fran’s eating than the episode rolling on the screen. His chin rises every time Fran takes the chopsticks to his lips and lowers alongside them. Fran decides to make an experiment and leaves the utensils in his mouth for a moment, licking the sauce off them, rolling them on his tongue and doing all sorts of stuff that would deny him the access to the fanciest Chinese restaurants. And Bel’s attention is fixed on him, his head tilting, lips hanging slightly open, and Fran can fully imagine the ice-blue eyes tailing his every movement. 

“You want some?” he asks finally, after getting tired with the prince’s loitering. He offers Bel the carton.

The blond snaps out of his trance and shakes his head. “No. Why would I want your leftovers?”

“I was just thinking, since you seem unable to keep your eyes off it. One more minute and you drool on my bed.”

Bel lets out a weird noise, something between a huff and a _squeal_ and drops his chin back on his forearms. He says nothing, and Fran is left to stare, surprised. Until Sheldon states something that makes the studio audience (or the tape, whatever) burst out laughing and his eyes return to the screen. Alright, he’s not forcing the prince. He’s more than happy to eat the rest of his meal by himself. 

The autoplay starts the next episode, when Fran picks up the last mouthful, pushing the carton and the chopsticks on the floor. Bel’s been so calm the last ten minutes or so that he might have caught up with the plot, though Fran can’t think of a more unfitting combination than his tuteur and a sitcom about physics nerds. He assumes the blond will get bored after the second episode, blast the show as the crappiest piece of junk on the planet and march out of the room.

Surprise is all the greater as after an hour and three episodes, they are still lying together on the bed. Fran has settled down on his stomach and managed to place his weight on the right arm to avoid lumbering his left one. The prince is lying quietly, during the last hour the only voices have been barely audible breathing and a single laugh. Fran is not sure if Bel was amused by the show or just something creepy crossing his dark mind. The atmosphere is at the same time pleasingly calm and somewhat strained, probably only because Fran is not used to such lounging with his tutor. He’s constantly aware of every movement.

What happens when they run out of episodes to watch? Will he get the prince out of his room or is Bel going to demand to spend the night?

What is it that _he_ wants?

Bel hasn’t mentioned his missing hat. Again. In fact, Fran is not even sure the blond has noticed. Not mentioning is becoming a custom, and Fran is definitely going to break the spell by blurting it out loud. 

At some point of the fourth episode Bel shifts – Fran had already started to suspect he’s sleeping – and sort of furtively, maybe hoping to pass unnoticed, inches his fingers to lie on top of Fran’s hand. Fran twitches but he’s not pulling his hand away. He doesn’t actually mind. The touch is light and warm and when fingertips start slowly sliding between his knuckles, it feels like tiny, electric ant feet are scurrying up his skin, giving him goose bumps. He keeps his eyes fixed on the screen, thankful for the long-sleeved sweater hiding his reaction.

Perhaps he should slap the hand away, because allowing the touch on his hand he’s sort of also giving permission to other groping. But it’s a clear improvement compared to the last time when tuteur just attacked his lips. And Fran _promised_ to think about it. He reckoned Bel was having second thoughts after their little encounter, but it appears after anger wore off the prince’s desire is back.

Desire to press Fran onto the mattress and… do everything Fran has no slightest experience of. Sure, he is familiar with the technical details of the process, he didn’t grow up under a rock, but to his knowledge sex is one of those fields in life where the theory never makes up the experience.

And Bel definitely has more experience than… Dr. Shamal.

Ten more minutes and Bel’s fingers are leaving the back of his palm. Fran takes notice that he has to watch this episode again, because for a while now he’s completely missed the happenings on the screen. How is it possible that touching a mere hand can steal your thoughts so thoroughly? Bel slowly takes his arm behind Fran’s back, pulling him against his side and Fran is not resisting, because the room is cold and the touch actually feels quite nice. Fingers are slowly riding back and forth his upper arm and he allows himself to lean on Bel’s warm side. He’s not able to relax completely, not for as long as his heart is beating all the way up against his thyroid gland and his blood circulation keeps changing its course wantonly.

That episode later, Bel’s arm is still resting around his shoulders and Fran is starting to think whether the position is uncomfortable, since tuteur needs to support his weight on one arm in order to not cling on to Fran. Should he ask? But wouldn’t the blond say it – insult him again – or simply remove his arm if he started to get tired?

As if reading Fran’s mind, Bel rolls over to his side, pulling his arm with him, and naturally Fran turns his head – only to realise that there’s something on his lips that doesn’t originally belong there. A wave of hotness flushes through him, telling him immediately that even if his conscious mind wasn’t expecting this, his body was. Bel tastes like Chinese meal but more like himself; to his horror Fran realises he’s capable of recognising his tutor’s characteristic taste. And he’s not all at the sea anymore when the wet tip of Bel’s tongue graces his lips, asking them to open. He remembers how this is done. Bel tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and pulls Fran against himself with determination, signalling that any kind of struggle is just a waste of energy.

A small voice in the back of his skull inquires why he isn’t resisting. Why he allows Bel to molest him the moment the blond feels like it?

_Bel bought me with a carton of Chinese food._ Or more accurately Fran let himself to be bought. Oh how hard his Master would laugh if he ever found out!

Bel doesn’t ask if he’s thought about it. Instead the prince is proceeding calmly, slowly, nibbling Fran’s lips, gliding his hand lazily on his side, sometimes halting and just… staying there, lying on the bed on his side and – if Fran is able to read his tutor – watching him through his fringe. This is a pace he’s able to keep up with. In fact, it makes him hungry for a little faster action, because his groin has started to throb and the jeans are twisting his package in an anatomically unnatural angle. He doesn’t dare to straighten it, because the blond might interpret it as an invitation.

He’s not entirely sure he _doesn’t_ want Bel to touch the content of his pants. That’s what they are heading for, right? In all honesty, he’s a little frightened… or a lot, but the prickling and burning of his skin and the pounding pulse below his navel indicate the prince’s touch is more than welcoming.

So maybe he wants to ‘fool around a little’, as Bel phrased it. It doesn’t have to mean anything else. How much damage could it do even if he started a physical relationship with his tutor? Number 1: It doesn’t have to go any further; he could still treat Bel normally outside the bedroom. Number 2: He’s been thinking whether the others would actually give a damn, and come to the conclusion they couldn’t really care less. Besides, why should he tell them? He could blackmail Bel to keep his mouth shut – if the blond is even feeling any need to babble – because he’s got something tuteur wants and therefore he’s holding the best card of the tournament. Number 3: Well… he is already seventeen and a cute girl from next door doesn’t seem to appearing too soon. He doesn’t even know their neighbours (it’s a kilometre distance to the nearest house) and every time they go out, he’s doomed to meet horrible, obtrusive cougars who have blood red, sharpened nails and who seem to find him totally irresistible.

His hips jerk, trying to press against its counterpart. He’s sure he neither granted it permission nor controlled the movement; it’s just a reflex-like twitch. For a second he hopes Bel didn’t notice but one glance at the smile spreading on the prince’s lips tells him he could as well hope the blond to be mentally balanced.

“Shishi, is the little froggy slowly getting in the mood?”

Fran closes his eyes. _I wish you’d call me something else, if only in this occasion._

He startles when he suddenly feels fingers in the hem of his shirt, but as Bel places his hand on the naked skin calmly, steadily, just the way he’s been doing thus far, Fran relaxes. If tuteur only would be patient enough to act this composedly all the time and in every situation… But in that case, he wouldn’t be Bel anymore.

Bel’s lips collect Fran’s, remaining light, tasting, and the hand starts sliding up and down his side, climbing on his ribs and pushing his shirt aside, returning to the waist of his jeans, and fingertips sneak inside. Fran realises, embarrassed, that his back is arched, he’s shamelessly rubbing against the blond and if it wasn’t for the stupid denim he’d be able to feel Bel’s body better. In fact, if he could get rid of all the fabrics he’d feel the warmth emitting from the blond.

Wait, just exactly _where_ his hands are?

Fortunately Bel is not making a big deal out of it, just leaning towards Fran and purring deep in his throat, as Fran tentatively glides his fingers on the blond’s waist. Bel’s skin is smooth and warm, lean, firm muscles moving underneath it, and suddenly Fran begins to feel like he wants… no, he _must_ experience _more_.

* * *

Bel hides his grin in the green, sun-scented hair, as the smaller body tenses against him, a curious touch tampers on his side, pushing his shirt aside, and quickened breath heats up his chest. He avoids showing Fran his contentment, because the boy is still balancing on a string, it’s visible in his fumbling and hesitation and confusion lingering in the green eyes. One wrong move might scare him away. And Bel is not going to make a wrong move. If Fran wants to panic, it can happen at the point when Bel forces the frog’s face into the pillow and squeezes his narrow hips and sinks into his hot body, but not a minute earlier.

Perhaps he could listen to Mammon more often. For a creature, who’s been out of the date market for years, the Arcobaleno gives remarkably good advice.

Since Fran is clearly yearning for a skin contact – though he’s fumbling in a way they’ll still be dressed in the morning – Bel decides to help him and wiggles out of his hoodie, getting rid of his shirt at the same time. A quick sit-up and he’s got his upper body bare. Chilly air hits his skin, since nobody knows how to warm up this fucking house, even though it’s December and zero degrees outside. He’s hesitant to pull the blanket over them, because Fran might decide that watching the physics nerds is more interesting after all. No, he must proceed slowly, but he can’t allow Fran time for second thoughts, either.

A pink veil decorates the illusionist’s cheeks, air runs tensely, and as his gaze reaches Bel’s bare chest, the boy pauses to hesitate. Only for a moment, for a blink of an eye, then he climbs to sit up and rids himself of the sweater and the long-sleeved shirt under it. It’s a clumsy task with one and a half hand, but his elbow doesn’t seem to be hurting. Bel’s eyes glue to Fran’s lean chest, slightly angular shoulders, symmetrical arcs of the collarbones, and tiny pink nubs shining from the white skin. Somehow Fran is… at the same time fragile and wiry little thing, clumsy and fast, naïve and cunning, and Bel’s fingers are positively itching because he just wants to touch every inch of that delicious body. The green pieces of glass keep staring at him, somewhat lost, and Bel pulls himself up, grabbing the bony shoulders and brushing his lips against the corner of Fran’s mouth to revive him, to give him a chance to be initiative. Because Fran clearly needs to feel like he’s controlling the situation at least a little bit, a total loss of reins scares him, that much Bel has managed to figure out.

He hasn’t got a slightest intention of handing off the reins to the froggy. He merely pretends so until he’s got the boy in a favourable position. 

He lingers at the corner of Fran’s mouth for as long as it takes the boy to turn his head and catch Bel’s lips. Fran kisses awkwardly but he’s getting better all the time and Bel can taste urge and desire on his tongue. His cock is aching and the pants are abrading and he just wants to get rid of them but he must wait, must hold on until Fran indicates to be…

The illusionist starts abruptly fumbling his jeans button. Oh, so his hormones do work? This time Bel lets his grin show, or more likely to feel, since his lips are still connected with Fran’s, and the illusionist pulls himself free, a little embarrassed, or maybe he just needs to see what his fingers are doing.

If Fran is stripping to his underwear, Bel supposes he can do the same. He opens his trousers button and pulls down the zipper, thankful to get more space for his little prince. As he pushes his trousers down, the chill truly attacks him. Fran is suffering from the same problem, his skin a field of goose flesh and hair in his arms standing up. 

“You want to get under the blanket?” Bel suggests, casually, with his best ‘No, I don’t have any ulterior motives’ voice.

Fran dithers, probably pondering his options, but nods then. “Alright.”

Bel pushes the heavy duvets aside, settling under them. Fran follows him quickly, but not quickly enough to cover himself from Bel’s eyes. The brat is wearing boxer briefs with the periodic table printed on them (which is the most ridiculous thing Bel’s seen in a long time, and he has to live in the same house with Levi) but his attention is immediately drawn to the bulge in the front of the fabric.

_That we can do something about, my little froggy._

Fran is slightly out of breath as he covers himself and lowers his head onto a pillow. His gaze is wandering to the laptop screen which picture is really too small to be watched from the head of the bed. The bribed studio audience is guffawing at the nerd gang’s stupidities, but Bel doesn’t really mind, because background noise eases the tension. Then the green eyes slowly turn, facing him and Bel is holding his breath, waiting to see what the young illusionist decides to do; has he run out of courage or is he going to keep listening to his body?

The other hand extends, landing on Bel’s cheek and he closes his eyes as fingers carefully sweep his fringe aside. He’s so accustomed to wearing his hair in front of his face that he feels naked without it, but if he must look the frog into the eyes to coax him into hot, kinky monkey sex, yes, he’s going to look. As the hand stops, Bel blinks to separate his lashes and catches a thoughtful expression on Fran’s face.

“What?” he finally asks, as Fran just stares, but he keeps his voice in check, not letting any sign of irritation seep through it.

”You have pretty eyes, Tuteur.”

Bel goes mute. What in a..? Did that Master of Insulting Sciences just blurt out a compliment? To him?

He’s on a verge of snubbing the brat, only because he’s always done it and the old habits die hard, but he manages to swallow his words. But what the hell is he supposed to answer to that?

His mind is completely blank.

At a loss of voice he chooses to react in a different manner which he knows to speak louder words: by capturing Fran’s lips for a better use. As Bel gets more dominant, plunging his tongue into Fran’s mouth and rising onto his elbows to hover over the illusionist, Fran lets out a small squeak and lifts his hips so that Bel’s able to feel the hot, pulsating hardness pressing against his thigh. 

So with an accurate treatment even a passive poker face can be turned into a shivering, passionate little beast. And Bel is about to find out what kind of noises he’s able to squeeze out of the boy.

He manoeuvres his hand between them, brushing lightly against the underwear (which have the periodic table printed on them and tonight the sheets are not decorated with Pokémon but Mario Bros’ characters, so Fran apparently shops in some kind of nerd universe which normal people have no access to) and gets a reaction resembling an electric shock. If Bel hadn’t known Fran to be totally inexperienced, he would have found it out now. He presses his hand more surely on the heated bulge, stroking it to feel a wet spot gathered in the fabric and to perceive the shape and size. Smaller than him, but not notably, a bit curved and hard as a rock wrapped in thin velvet. Fran is mumbling something, which Bel fails to understand, it could be his name, it could be ‘don’t’, but the tone tells him Fran doesn’t wish him to stop. And he’s not stopping; he just moves his hand so that his fingers are able to sneak underneath the waistband of Fran’s boxers.

The downside of boxer briefs is that as handy as they are in a combat they don’t have a lot of room for both an erection and a hand. Since Fran is not seemingly resisting, excluding his obscure whimpering, Bel grabs the boxers and with a one swift move yanks them down, so that the frog doesn’t even get a chance to protest. He doesn’t get a chance to _react_ before the sudden breeze hits his naked skin.

“Tuteur, what are y–?”

Bel silences Fran by wrapping his fingers around the boy’s weeping cock and burying his face on the crook of his neck. Sharp half moons are scratching his shoulders as Fran hangs onto him with both hands, forgetting his abused elbow. Bel wanders around the warm, salty skin with his lips, whirling his tongue here and there, stopping to suck some spot, but making sure to not leave any marks. If tomorrow morning Fran appeared on the breakfast table with his neck covered in bruises, _everyone would know immediately._

Fran is already so close to exploding than even the lightest squeeze would push him over the edge. He’s snuffling against Bel’s shoulder, arching his back, trying simultaneously to withdraw and nestle closer. Bel keeps holding him, letting the boy squirm and feel how skilled he can be with just his hands. As he slides the silken skin back and forth, it occurs to him that he’s not carrying any lube with him.

Fuck, how can he be so stupid?!

It just didn’t cross his mind. He didn’t really believe he was going to make it this far; his thoughts were occupied with the hope of getting into Fran’s room. But despite that, he should have remembered to carry a tube in his pocket. Maybe Fran has some lotion in his bathroom. The illusionist’s skin is soft – like a baby’s tush and a peach and that extraordinary new toilet paper had combined their forces – so he must use some kind of moisturiser.

Bel didn’t notice his frustration was reflecting to his actions but apparently he’s squeezed just a tiniest bit harder, rubbed faster or Fran’s stamina is simply next to pitiful, because abruptly the frog strains his back. Bel reacts quickly, grabs the boy good and proper, and with a few strokes pulls him on top of an orgasm, because it’s too late to go back now. A funny but strangely arousing sound emits from Fran’s throat, and then he wets Bel’s fingers. 

Bel lets the frog collect himself, sink into the mattress and gather his breath. His fingers are covered in cum and he doesn’t have tissues, so he wipes the gunk on Fran’s underwear as it’s conveniently at hand. His own cock is throbbing so demandingly that everything between his navel and thighs feels like an enormous pulse but he forces himself to ignore it for now. He must make their ministrations look worthwhile to Fran, not like he’s only seeking his own pleasure.

When the young illusionist appears to be again inside his own head, opens his huge green eyes and blinks, looking a little stunned, Bel can’t resist voicing his thoughts. “Wow, that sure was a… lousy performance.”

“Tuteur…” Fran mutters, his voice thick with embarrassment and cheeks burning. He keeps opening his mouth, but nothing comes out, so Bel decides to help.

“It happens when you’re young. The good news is your little _bite_ is all up and running after half a minute’s rest.”

Fran peers at him and judging by the narrowing eyes his true nature is already returning. “And it takes you half an hour, since you’re basically hovering on the edge of your grave?”

“Wrong choice of words. I can _go on_ for half an hour and even longer if needed, and it has nothing to do with my age.”

“If you say so.”

Bel glances around in the room. ”Have you got any lotion?”

“In the bathroom. Why? Are you late from your fake-royal beauty treatment?”

Hmm, it appears that right after getting rid of sexual tension Fran reverts to the insult-vomiting little monkey. 

Bel swallows a sharp remark. _Remember why you’re here, remember why you’re here._ “I reckon we’re going to need some kind of lube.”

Fran mouths the word and for a minute his otherwise so quick brain can’t quite catch up. But as Bel throws the blanket aside, planning to go rummage in froggy’s bathroom, a panicky voice hits his back.

“Hey, I wasn’t… I mean what do you need lube for? Because I don’t want to go any further than this. At least not yet… or…”

Bel stops on the edge of the bed, his back to Fran. He closes his eyes. Grinds his teeth. Takes a deep breath. Once, twice, thrice. His cock is getting unhealthy purplish with all the blood congestion and his body’s intend seems to be squeezing some extra decilitres in it.

Oh, so _this_ is the moment that ungrateful brat decides to slam the door to his face?

He turns his upper body towards the illusionist, becoming aware of the pulse beating in his temples, his jaw muscles crunching and his fingers prickling because they are craving to hold something, preferably cold steel. Fran eyes him, looking lost and holding the blanket against his chest like a shy, bashful virgin. Which he naturally is. Except far from shy.

_‘Then you ask him to stay. Ask, don’t command. If he declines, you just accept it and let him be.’_

_‘I guarantee you that next time you’re one step closer if you allow him some space.’_

Aargh, screw Mammon! Mammon is a woman and women understand nothing.

”I swear I’m going to jerk off on you if don’t do something about this.” Bel turns around fully so Fran is able to see his state. The brat is a male, too. He should know how it feels like to have an apocalyptic erection; when every breeze of air is caressing the aching shaft, and only thing you can think about is _sticking it in a snug hole, any kind of hole, as long as it gives enough friction._

Fran opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and the words are once again abandoning him. Bel’s eyes get fixated on the red lips and a wet cave behind them. If only he’d get those perfect little muscles around his cock…

As if Fran was reading his thoughts – or perhaps they are visible on his face – because the green eyes suddenly widen and the frog snaps his mouth shut.

“Tuteur, I’m sorry…”

_Sorry? He’s sorry? He’s going to be more sorry soon when I…_

Bel snaps his eyes shut again, concentrating on breathing. His jaw is aching and with a huge effort he manages to loosen the cramp of his muscles.

Okay, okay. Fran is inexperienced and apparently the type that’s cautious about new things, especially if they have something to do with sex. And even if Bel is hovering on the verge of flipping the boy onto his stomach and fucking him _hard_ and not giving a crap about the brat’s whining, a vague but persistent voice keeps whispering into his ear that in a long run he’s not going to benefit from forcing. Maybe it’s Mammon, maybe Lussuria, hell, it could be even Squalo, though it’s hard to imagine a situation in which the long-haired commander would consider a slow persuasion better choice than forcing. All the same, Bel halts to listen.

His mental eyes paint a scene – compliant Fran side by side with reluctant Fran. Which one he truly wants?

He rubs his forehead and drops his hand to his lap, letting all the air out of his lungs. “Alright then, frog. Can I still sleep here?” 

”Tuteur, I didn’t mean to...” Fran begins, sounding uncommonly reconciling. “Yes, you can. You can sleep here.”

Bel is unsure what to do with the need tormenting the lower half of his body. He supposes he just has to pop into the bathroom and take care of it himself, because he damn sure won’t be able to sleep with a raging boner, especially when the cause of it is lying within arm’s reach.

Slowly he settles onto his back, pulling the blanket on top of him. A minute or two they are lying in silence that is far from comfortable. Then all of a sudden a shy hand inches to his side under the covers, poking his hipbone and climbing onto his stomach. Surprised, Bel turns his head to the illusionist, checking his spirits.

“I didn’t mean you’d have to sleep… like that”, Fran says, his voice quiet. “I’m just not ready to try... well, anything that involves my sphincter.” And then careful fingers brush against Bel’s erection. He inhales sharply between his teeth. The touch is tentative at first, but with his approving grunt, Fran wraps his fingers tighter around him. “I’ve never done this to another person so you have to teach me.”

“Just keep moving your hand”, Bel guides the boy. “Ngghh, that’s good, froggy. That’s perfect.”


End file.
